


cause you were all i ever longed for

by clowsan, youareiron_andyouarestrong



Series: Broadening the World [1]
Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Family Bonding, Family Dynamics, Gen, additions to the Murdock family, because he needs siblings, matt has a younger sister, peripheral matt/claire, the devils of hell's kitchen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-25
Updated: 2015-08-26
Packaged: 2018-04-11 03:16:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4419074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clowsan/pseuds/clowsan, https://archiveofourown.org/users/youareiron_andyouarestrong/pseuds/youareiron_andyouarestrong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a teenage girl comes crashing into Matt’s office, he isn’t entirely certain what to expect. <br/>...There is a very long pause, in which Matt counts her heartbeats. One, two, three, four, five. The amount  of time it takes to draw in a breath and hold it in, and let it go. </p><p>“Isabelle,” she says finally. “Isabelle Brigid Murdock. I’m pretty sure I’m your sister.”<br/>//<br/>Matt has a younger sister and all that it entails.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. wide-eyed with a heart made full of fright

When a teenage girl comes crashing into Matt’s office, he isn’t entirely certain what to expect.

Karen’s startled “Can we help you?” is lost in the sudden closing of the door. Foggy’s body shifts in response to the newcomer.

She’s young, heart pounding with anxiety and adrenaline.  A backpack is thrown over her shoulder, she’s wearing jeans. A student, then. Not even college, he thinks, high school. Everything about her speaks of impatience and restlessness.

“Is this where Matt Murdock works?” she asks Karen. Her voice is strong, it carries. She speaks like someone accustomed to getting attention.

“Y-ees,” says Karen slowly, carefully. “Can I help you? I’m his secretary.”

Matt gets to his feet, grabs his cane. He makes his way out into the main room, Foggy already joining him. “I’m Matt,” he says, making it a point to be non-threatening, placating. Whatever else she is, this girl’s on some kind of edge, ready to fall. “What can I do for you?”

Her heartbeat picks up almost frantically when she turns to him. It’s not attraction; he _knows_ attraction, this is fear, bordering on panic. Anxiety. “I’m--I was looking for you,” she says, tremors only perceptible to him rippling through her.

“Well,” he says gently, “here I am. Can I help you with something?”

A sharp snapping sound escapes her, not quite a laugh. “I don’t--I don’t know.”

“Are you in some kind of trouble, miss?” asks Foggy.

Another sharp laugh, tinged with frustration. “If I’m not now, I will be,” she says.

Foggy tries to ease her towards the conference room, placing one hand on her elbow. She jerks away like he tried to touch her with a hot iron. “We can talk in private here, Miss--?”

There is a very long pause, in which Matt counts her heartbeats. One, two, three, four, five. The amount of time it takes to draw in a breath and hold it in, and let it go.

“Isabelle,” she says finally. “Isabelle Brigid Murdock. I’m pretty sure I’m your sister.”

* * *

 

“I fucked this up,” she says unhappily, clutching a cup of water in her hands. She’s sitting in the conference room now, one leg bouncing agitatedly. “I had a speech, a really great speech about how I’ve spent most of my life wanting an older brother and then I finally found him and it turns out he’s this ass-kicking lawyer standing up for the little guy and overcame adversity and I was super proud and kind of terrified, and it was a _great speech_ , okay? Pulitzer Prize winning speech, you know? And then I go and blurt it out.” She’s barely even sitting on the chair; she’s perched on the edge.

“Here’s the thing, okay?” she says. “Mom won’t talk about dad,” and it takes every bit  of Matt’s self-control not to flinch at how casually she says _mom_. “I’ve got no pictures of him, no video recordings, nothing. The most I’ve ever gotten is when she’s mad at me for something and she tells me, ‘That’s the Murdock in you; that’s no Brennan. No Brennan behaves like you.’ Which is pretty much all I’ve like, ever had about dad’s side of the family. Grandpa Hudson tells me more when I ask, but he’s got Parkinson’s and his memory’s not as great as it used to be.”

She gulps down some of the water, some it dribbling past her lips. She wipes her mouth with her sleeve, careless and rushed. “And I never even knew I had a brother until up about three months ago when that shit with Fisk went down--” all three of them flinch at that--“and Mom suddenly won’t even look at the paper anymore. She won’t even _buy_ it. Won’t even let _me_ read it. So I have to go to Grandpa Hudson’s to read the fricking newspaper; how stupid is that?” She takes in a huge gulp of air and rushes on, “And I show Grandpa the newspaper. ‘Grandpa,’ I say, ‘look at that guy they caught.’ And Grandpa looks at the paper and says, ‘Why, that’s little Mattie. Look how big he’s gotten.’ ‘Who’s Mattie?’ I ask him and then he says, ‘Why that’s your big brother, Izzy girl. Maggie and Jack’s boy.’ And then _I_ say, ‘Grandpa Hudson, I don’t have a brother,’ and then _he_ says, ‘Sure you do, Izzy girl, you’ve got Matthew Michael Murdock, that’s your older brother.” She pauses. “While we’re on the subject, what’d you do to deserve a name like that?”

“I’ve asked myself that question many times,” says Matt weakly and he can hear the pull of her muscles as she--grins? grimaces?

“Um, I just smiled,” she adds quickly and then plunges on, “So I go back home _with_ the newspaper this time and I ask mom, ‘Why does Grandpa Hudson tell me I’ve got an older brother?’” She stops then. “She--she didn’t take it too well but I got her to tell me a little about you--” she’s skipping something, Matt thinks. Deliberately skirting around an issue. “And well, um, I Googled you and here I--am?” The last parts sounds like a question. She’s nearing the edge of her energy now, wound tight like a spring about to snap. She’s afraid, he realizes. She is absolutely terrified about what he’s going to say next.

Truthfully, _he’s_ not sure what he’s going to say next. “Where do you live?” That’s reasonable, he tells himself, that’s expected. It’s something a lawyer might say, not an older brother. He’s not an older brother.

He’s pretty sure.  

She deflates somewhat in her chair. “Oh. Um, in Brooklyn. I go to school there too. Grandpa Hudson still lives in Hell’s Kitchen and I go to see him pretty often. He--he says they only way they’ll take him out of here is when they bury him.”

She’s waiting for him to say something. She clearly wants him to say something. But he cannot, for the life of him, think of a thing to say to this girl who has barged into his life and then blown it all sky high.

Something in his face must telegraph this, because her shoulders slump. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have--I shouldn’t have come here, I’m sorry, I’ll just go,” she’s making to leave already, she’s grabbing her backpack, he’s not even stopping her, _should_ he stop her? Does he even _want_ to--

“Why didn’t Matt’s mom tell Jack that she was pregnant again?” asks Foggy and Matt could sink through his chair in relief. “How old are you?”

If Foggy sounds like he’s cross-examining her, he can’t entirely help it, he had gripped Matt’s shoulder in silent support when the four of them trooped into the conference room. It’s protection he’s offering Matt.

The girl--Isabelle, her name is Isabelle--stiffens slightly at this but she answers gamely, “I’m nineteen. I’m about to graduate high school. I think--from what I understand, Mom didn’t know she was pregnant with me until after she left dad. And by the time I came along, she was already moved to Brooklyn.”

She stops again, clearly thinking about what to say next. “Look, I fully recognize that I came in here and dropped a bomb on you--” another round of flinches--“but seriously, I kept thinking about it and I thought, ‘If it was me, I’d want to know. I’d find out, I’d tell them.’ And I was _super_ pissed at mom when I found out, I didn’t talk to her for a _week_ , I was so mad--” Matt can’t imagine that, being angry at a parent and them _being around_ not to speak to them--“but I came. Mom--mom doesn’t even know I’m here. I don’t--” she trails off, slowly sinking back into her chair, “I don’t even know what she’ll do.”

“What do you mean?” Foggy asks and she shrugs unhappily.

“I mean I don’t know. She--she _never talks about dad._ The only reason I know his _name_ is because Grandpa Hudson mentions him to me. And she--she can’t stand to look at me sometimes, I know she can’t. She wanted me to dye my hair when I was fourteen, okay, _fourteen_! She hates it when I glare at her, I mean she fully tells me not to look at her, she says, ‘Stop giving me that Murdock glare,’ and she’s been telling me this since I was _six_ , okay? Since I was six.”

“Why’d she want you to dye your hair?” Karen asks and there’s another shrug.

“Grandpa says I’ve got the Murdock red hair,” she tells Karen. “And--and I’ve got dad’s eyes. He says.”

Silence again. She’s turning to Matt, he can feel her eyes--dad’s eyes, he remembers the color, that clear blue grey with the cloudy sky behind it, _close your eyes Mattie, close them_ \--on him. She’s gripping the edge of the table; her nails are digging into it, he can smell traces of the polish she’s leaving behind.

“You--you look kind of like mom,” she says finally and he stiffens now, he can’t help it. “I mean--I can’t tell, but you’ve probably got her eye color, if I got dad’s, and the--chin is the same, but I’ve got one picture of dad, okay? Just one and that’s the one Grandpa gave to me. And you--you look like him.” Her voice shakes slightly on the last word. “You look like dad.”

He doesn’t say anything. He’s not sure he can.

“ _Please_ say something,” she tells him, her voice really shaking now.

Slowly, he gets up, leaves the cane behind for now. She gets up too, body coiled like she’s ready to make for the door at any moment. Letting one hand rest on the table edge, guiding himself, he makes his way over to her. Her eyes are flicking back and forth, he can sense that. Heartbeat and breathing elevated, but she stays still. She stays still like a kid who knows how to anticipate the unexpected and this _tells_ him something, something he’s not sure he even wants to think about.

His hand is going up, there’s an almost imperceptible flinch from her and then his suspicion hardens into near-certainty and he can’t think about that right now, he can’t. Instead, carefully, cautiously, like she’s a feral cat he’s trying not to spook, he lays his hand on his cheek, one thumb on her cheekbone. It’s high and elegant, strongly arched. With his other hand, he lays it on the other side of her face. She’s not moving a muscle. No one in the room is, except him.

He traces her cheekbones, feels for her eyelashes, they brush his thumb. Her eyebrows are long and nearly meeting in the middle now, she tries to relax her forehead when he carefully traces the breadth of it, high and broad. Her nose has the smallest bump on the ridge, a long-healed break. Her chin is firm, uncompromising, her jaw strong. He hesitates only for a second before using the pad of his thumb to feel for her mouth, she’s got his mouth, he realizes, he’s tracing the same expanse that’s on his face. Her teeth sink into the lower lip before releasing it.

She is standing utterly still, letting the near-stranger that he is explore her face, and Matt lets his hands move back, lets them settle on her shoulders. They’re almost the same height, he realizes, and she is muscled like a runner. Like a dancer.

“Is it Isabelle?” he asks finally. “Or Izzy?”

She releases her breath through her nose, her shoulders lower under his hands. “Only my mom calls me Isabelle,” she tells him. “And that’s when I’m in trouble. Everyone else--calls me Izzy.”

“Izzy,” he says, trying the name on his tongue. _Isabelle Brigid Murdock._

“Hello Izzy,” he tells her, and his voice is--it’s only wavering slightly-- “I’m Matt. It’s very nice to meet you.”                        

 


	2. been wondering for days, how you felt me slip your mind

Izzy is musical, which surprises Matt. She’s always showing up in their office, lugging some instrument case with her, a guitar case banging against her knees, a violin case she carries like gold. If Foggy starts humming some random show tune, she always knows it and sings it with him. She has a lovely voice, it makes him think of honey in a hot mug of tea. She talks to Karen about art, showing her drawings from in a small sketchbook shoved into her backpack or messenger bag at all times. They talk about museums and artists they’ve seen on the internet, styles of drawing. She’s.. _.artistic_ , and while the irony isn’t lost on him, it makes him strangely proud of her.

She comes in after her school lets out most days now, spreads her homework out and works on it, occasionally throwing questions at him, about their father, growing up, law school.

He’s often stunned and fascinated by how _intelligent_ she is, how quickly her mind travels from one thing to another. Having a conversation with her is sort of like grabbing the tail end of a kite and letting it pull you farther and farther up.

They don’t talk about their mother. Matt’s put enough together to understand that Izzy’s homelife is not...ideal, not by any means, but she’s planning to move out once she graduates, she tells him. She’s got money saved, a friend of hers has promised her a couch. She’s looking into colleges.

“I got plans,” Izzy tells him, perched on the edge of his desk, drumming her heels absently against it.

“Everyone’s got plans, Izzy,” he says, letting his fingers run over the Braille reader.

“Everybody’s got _dreams_ ,” she retorts. “ _I_ got plans.”

It’s been about three weeks since she showed up for the first time, when she invites the three of them to a showcase she’s in. “To be perfectly honest, it’s not really a showcase,” she admits frankly. “A friend of mine, Owen? He’s got this band and because he’s an utter _diva_ , his bass players keep quitting on him. I’m helping him out as a favor. And Owen’s got all these grandiose schemes about how we’re all going to get discovered and his latest plan is to do something on a rooftop.”

“Why a rooftop?” asks Karen.

“Ambience? Authentic New York sound? Owen’s letting his pretensions run away with him?” Izzy says dryly. “Any one of those things, really. But anyway, you all are invited to come, if you can get away.”

She’s making an effort to sound nonchalant, but she keeps tilting her head in his direction.

“We’ll make it,” he promises her. “Give us the address.”

Even without sight, he can feel how bright her smile is.

* * *

 

Claire comes along with them, which is another surprise. He told her about Izzy the last time he was there and she said she’d like to meet her.

“Just what the world needs,” she’d said, her voice rich with wry amusement. “Another batshit crazy Murdock.”

But she’d come. Now she was talking with Foggy and Karen, the four of them on a rooftop in Manhattan.

Izzy’s friends are enthusiastic, talkative teenagers who are curious about the presence of the adults.  One of them, a girl called Fraser, keeps turning around to look at them and she doesn’t quite keep her voice down she says, “Iz, why are all the grown ups you know so hot?”

Izzy shushes her, burning hotter from embarrassment. “God Fra, I don’t think they heard you in New Jersey.”

“What? That is some kind of crazy genetic lottery you won over there. Why didn’t you say your brother was so hot?”

“ _Because_ he’s my brother, Fra? C’mon, he’s way too old for you.”

“Yeah I know. But still.” The other girl’s head turns back and forth between the two of them. “Have you told your mom--”

Izzy shushes her and one of the boys--Matt’s almost certain he’s wearing some kind of fedora--calls to them, “I’d like to get this show on the road some time today ladies.”

“Don’t you mean on the rooftop?” Izzy calls back, walking over the set-up of instruments as Fraser giggles.

“Hilarious Murdock,” says the boy flatly and Izzy scoops up her bass. He’s not entirely sure, but Matt think she might’ve flipped the hat wearer off. “ _Nice._ Anyway, if you’re done conspiring over there, we can start.”

“Are you _sure_?” Izzy asks dryly. “Because the last time you said that, you needed to do three more soundchecks--”  

“We’re starting,” Owen yells over the laughter and Izzy puts the guitar strap over her head, chuckling quietly.

The kids are good, solid. They do mostly covers of old hits, Izzy on the bass and adding backup vocals to the songs. Matt leans against the rail, letting the sound wash over him, it’s a warm early summer night in New York and for once, he’s not running over rooftops, chasing down people who don’t want to be found.  He’s listening to his sister play guitar and he’s somehow unsurprised by his contentment.

Fraser, Izzy’s friend, does most of the lead singing, and her voice is lovely, clear and pure like silver. Izzy gets a guitar solo that makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up, because it’s so _good_ , he can’t believe that’s his _sister_ playing a guitar like a professional. When the solo and song ends, all the kids whoop and cheer appreciatively.

“I think we got one more song in us before someone calls the cops,” Izzy says and immediately the hat wearer--Owen--pounces on this.

“You haven’t sung for us yet, Iz,” he says. “You just finished that new song, right? We can end with that one.”

“Owen, I haven’t played that for _anyone,”_ Izzy says, sounding slightly appalled.

“Now’s the perfect time,” Fraser pipes up with the intonation of an evil smirk.

“Shut up Fra,” Izzy growls but now the kids all yelling encouragement and whooping excitedly. “C’mon, Murdock! Iz-zy! Iz-zy! Iz-zy--”

“ _Alright_ ,” Izzy shouts exasperatedly, “Alright, fine! Someone give me the damn mike.”

Amid cheering and laughter, Izzy moves up to the center, Fraser moving aside for her. Once it quiets down a little, Izzy takes the mike, a deep breath and begins to sing, _“Hold on, hold on, hold on to me, because I’m a little unsteady…”_

Her voice ripples and rises, honey and starlight, Matt forgets about everything. In the muggy New York air, his sister’s voice glows like a beacon.

_“Mother, I know you’re tired of being alone, dad I know you’re trying to fight when you feel like flying…”_

She wrote this song, he realizes. She must’ve wrote it after she met him. _“If you love me, don’t let go,”_ she sings, _“Hold on, hold on, hold on to me, because I’m a little unsteady, a little unsteady--”_

In the middle of the stanza, her voice chokes and cuts off so abruptly the last notes seem to hang in the air around them. “Izzy, what the hell--” Owen starts to say indignantly, but that’s when Fraser says in a choked mutter, “Oh _shit._ ”

A woman’s step, a woman’s voice, barely recalled memories. “Isabelle?” she says, her voice puzzled. “Isabelle, what are you--”

“Mom,” Izzy says in a strangled voice, “what are you doing here?”

“I got off of work early,” is the reply, her steps coming closer. Matt can’t move, he can feel Claire stiffening by his side, Karen clutching his arm, and Foggy going very, very still. He smells perfume and detergent, she’s wearing a pencil skirt and pumps. “I wanted to hear you play,” she goes on, “why did you stop? It sounded lovely--” She cuts herself off, just seeming to realize that there are other people also on the rooftop. Her head is turning in Matt’s direction, he can hear increased heart rate and an intake of breath. Izzy is radiating nothing so much as pure panic.

“Ms. Brennan,” Fraser starts to say, instantly coming forward, but the woman--Maggie Murdock, Maggie Brennan--raises a hand to ward off the words.

“Isabelle Brigid Murdock,” she says very quietly. “Who is that?” Matt doesn’t need sight to know she is looking at him.

Izzy’s voice is low and tight, “Mom--”

_“Who is that Isabelle.”_ __

“That’s--that’s Matt,” Izzy says, her voice only shaking slightly. “Matt Murdock. My brother. Your son--” the words die again in whatever her mother’s expression is.

Silence ices the air. Matt can hear her controlled breathing, her hands coiling into fists at her sides. “Do not talk to me,” says Maggie Murdock, all furious intent. “Get your stuff, we’re going.”

“Mom,” Izzy says again, desperation edging the words, “mom, come on, please--”

“You don’t get to talk,” says her mother furiously. “Get your things Isabelle.”

“Mom!” Izzy’s voice rises dangerously. “You can’t do this, he’s your _son--”_

Maggie Murdock turns on her daughter, barely controlled temper. Izzy takes an involuntary step back. “I don’t _have_ a son,” says their mother, as if by sheer force of will she can deny Matt’s existence. “And in the next few minutes, I’m not going to have a _daughter_ if she doesn’t come home with me _right now_.”

No one says a word. No one even breathes. Matt’s not even sure if Izzy is.

“Isabelle, I said come on,” says their mother and Izzy’s anguish telegraphs like a lighthouse. She’s gripping her guitar like her life depends on it and her legs are shaking. Never in his life has he been so afraid.  

Her voice is small, but steady. “No.”

A head turning, a hand beginning to rise. “What did you say?”

“I said--” Izzy gulps in air. “I said no. I’m not leaving. You can’t make me.”

“You are my daughter and you will do as I say,” says Maggie Murdock.

“He’s your son and you can’t treat him like this,” Izzy replies, clearly trying not to start shaking or crying. “Mom, come on! Whatever Jack Murdock did to you, Matt’s doesn’t deserve--”

Their mother’s blow on Izzy’s cheek sounds like a thunderclap. Izzy staggers back, makes a small, pained sound, but other than that, she sounds neither surprised or shocked.

Entirely without his volition, Matt is moving.

He crosses the space and puts himself between his mother and sister, Izzy gasping and clutching her face in pain. “I think,” he says, surprised by his own calm, “you should leave now. Izzy can stay with me tonight.”

He’s taller than his mother. He tries not to take undue advantage of this.

Maggie Murdock looks back and forth between, against all odds, her children. Izzy is behind her brother, Matt is holding his cane in front of them both, the end held out like a shield. Matt can hear Izzy’s breathing, fast and pained and frightened, how the teeangers have backed up almost to the wall, how entirely without him realizing it, Claire and Foggy and Karen have come up behind him and Izzy, a silent honor guard.

Maggie Murdock lets out her breath, sharp and sudden. “Take her then,” she growls out. “Take her and be damned to you both. Stubborn, selfish, ungrateful Murdocks.” She raises her voice so Izzy can hear it. “Don’t expect to be welcome in my home after this!”

Their mother turns and walks away, her heels clicking sharply. Izzy makes a choked, sobbing sound, but she doesn’t call after her, just sags against Matt like a puppet whose strings have been cut. “Oh my god,” she says, shaking like a leaf, “Oh my god, Matt, what have we done?”

 _What_ have _we done,_ Matt thinks, but he turns anyways, pulls his sister into his arms, lets her shake and sob against his shirt.

He rests his cheek against her hair, feeling warm wetness soak into his jacket and shirt. “We’re going to be fine,” he tells her, because he will make it true by sheer force of will if he has to. “We’re going to be fine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Izzy sings is "Unsteady" by the X Ambassadors and it is the most Matt song to ever exist.


	3. i want to learn to love in kind

Suddenly Matt goes from living on his own to having a nineteen year old younger sister sharing his apartment. Foggy and Karen bring her belongings from Brooklyn. Izzy tried to go on her own but came back with another bruise on her face and silent.

Matt thinks maybe he should look into getting a new place, one with two proper bedrooms, but Izzy won’t hear of it. “I’ll put up Japanese screens or something,” she’d insisted. “It’s not like there’s not enough space for it,” she added dryly.

In the unused space of his apartment, now there’s a futon he and Izzy found at a bargain price, three used bookshelves Foggy helped them put together, and folding screens that Karen and Izzy painted with cherry blossoms and lakes around her side of the apartment. Already Matt’s tripping over her shoes left by the door and coming back to Izzy cooking something.

“I nest when I’m antsy,” she tells Matt over curry one night. “I did most of the cooking at--back with mom. She always came home too tired for it.” They’re quiet for a bit, Izzy poking at the rice on her plate and Matt thinking back to when he met her, how she had stood still like someone ready to anticipate the unexpected.

“It wasn’t always bad,” she says abruptly, still pushing rice around absently. “Living with her, I mean. I mean--there were moments of like, _maybe things will be better now_ , but they never seemed to last. She’s not--she wasn’t always an easy person to live with, but neither was I, I guess. I was always getting into fights.”

This surprises Matt. “You got into fights?”

Izzy snorts softly. “Oh yeah. All the time. Grandpa Hudson taught me how to punch, before the Parkinson’s. He taught dad. That’s he and mom met.”

“He tell you this story?” Matt asks. It’s like being given a treasure chest, not even knowing where to start.

Izzy’s voice is wistful and amused, a half smile in it. “All the time. I’ll take you to see him sometime, he’ll like that.” Her voice is directed at the plate now. “He’d--he’d love you. Talk about all the boxing stuff.”

Matt sets aside his plate, reaches out a hand, searching for hers. Izzy moves her fingers to his, letting him squeeze them. “I’d like that,” he tells her gently. “We can go after Mass on Sunday.”

Izzy’s question is tentative. “So--you go to church _every_ Sunday?”

“When I can,” Matt replies, sensing the need for a change in subject. “Did you go with--with mom?”

“Hardly ever,” Izzy replies, making what he guesses is a wry face. “Mom got tired of everyone knowing her business. All the nuns in Brooklyn are nosy as hell.” A pause. “Um--”

Matt can’t help but laugh. “They aren’t any better over here, if that makes you feel better.”

“It doesn’t,” Izzy retorts, but she relaxes. “So we should probably talk about ground rules.”

“Ground rules,” Matt agrees. “School nights.”

“I don’t really have anywhere to _go_ after school,” Izzy admits frankly. “I hang out with Fraser some, but I like going to the office and hanging out with you too. So that’s okay.”

“That sounds fine.”  Matt takes a deep breath. The minute he’d gotten him alone, Foggy had promptly lectured him about leaving Izzy in the dark about Daredevil.

_“She’s going to find out eventually Matt.”_

__ _“I know. I’m going to tell her.”_

__ _“When?”_

__ _“Soon.”_

“I have very late nights sometimes,” he tells her, acutely aware of her calmness, her apparent relaxing. “I don’t get until past midnight, if not later. I don’t want you to wait up for me.”

“Okay.” Izzy’s voice is mild, expectant. “Is that going to be our code word now?”

Matt blinks at her. “Code word?”

“For Daredevil,” says Izzy like it’s patently obvious. “Is that our code for your Daredevil-ing thing?”

Matt just sits in his chair, on some level aware he is full out gaping but can’t seem to do anything about it.

Izzy props her chin on her hand, immensely amused. “You’re so cute when you’re shocked. Your eyebrows get all scrunched together.”

“They do not,” he says immediately and irrelevantly and snaps back to himself. “Izzy, who--”

“No one told me,” Izzy says patiently. “I kind of figured it on my own. I’m pretty clever, you know.”

“This--this--” He is _spluttering_ now, he is a lawyer, he does _not_ splutter. “This is not a joke.”

“I’m not laughing, are you?” Izzy says, still incredibly patient. “I’m just waiting for you to get to the point.”

“The point?” Matt manages to get out. “ _The point?_ ”

“There’s nothing wrong with your hearing is there?” Izzy inquires mildly. “I thought it was just your sight.”   

At a loss, Matt just sits back in his chair and reaches up to scrub one hand across his face. “Oh alright,” Izzy relents. “It wasn’t that hard. Anyone with e--half a brain could’ve figured it out, if they only paid attention.” When Matt doesn’t respond, she goes on: “I mean, you come in almost every day with some kind of new bruise or cut on your face and I know for a fact you are not _nearly_ as clumsy as you say you are. Foggy always looks anxious when Daredevil shows up in the newspaper. I’m pretty sure Karen knows.”

Matt stiffens in his seat. _“What?”_

“I think she knows,” Izzy repeats, thoughtfully. “I dunno, it’s just a feeling I get.” Her attention comes back to him, sharp and clear. “But I’m right, aren’t I? You’re Daredevil.”

Matt’s still struggling to formulate some sort of reply when Izzy, her voice gone suddenly quiet and intent, tells him, “Please don’t start out my living here with lying to me.”

Defeated, Matt pushes aside his plate and cup, taking off his glasses. His sister waits, calm and unmoving.

“It’s--dangerous for you to know,” he says finally. “You know that, right?”

“It’s dangerous for me to walk down the street by myself,” Izzy replies. “It’s dangerous for me to go to school, or have you forgotten where we live?” Matt grimaces, and Izzy goes on, “The whole world is dangerous Matt, but that doesn’t stop any of us from living in it. Besides, you’re making it a little safer for us all, right?”

“Not nearly safe _enough_ ,” Matt says and his sister shrugs.

“I just shrugged,” she adds casually, like she’s been telling him that their whole lives, “You’re working on it. You’ve got me, Foggy, Karen and Claire. And someday you’re going to explain to me how a blind guy beats up criminals and takes down mob bosses with his bare hands.”

“Not by myself,” Matt almost whispers and his sister’s head cocks to one side, an almost perfect mimic of his own movement when he’s listening really hard.

“You’ll tell me,” she says simply, “when you can. We’ve got time.”

And she takes his plate and hers, and when she passes him to go put their dishes in the sink, she hesitates only a second before dropping a kiss on the crown of his head.   

//

Izzy keeps her word and after Mass on Sunday, she takes him to Brooklyn to see their grandfather. “For now, he’s living on his own,” she explains on the taxi ride there. “He manages okay and one of the neighbor ladies checks on him. He’s got good days and bad days, but the good days outweigh the bad ones.” For now, is the rest of the unspoken sentence, but Matt doesn’t call her on it. He’s unaccountably nervous and Izzy, with her now recognized uncanny trick of picking up his emotions, casually tells him about growing up with Grandpa Hudson and the time he taught her how to throw a punch and she almost broke her hand.

“I angled it wrong,” she remembers, a smile in her voice. “Next time I did it, I did it _right_.”

Grandpa Hudson’s apartment is small, cluttered and musty with relics. Matt keeps his cane out as he navigates the floor as Izzy talks softly with the old man in the next room.

“Grandpa Hudson, I brought someone you might want to meet,” Izzy says, in the gentlest voice he’s ever heard her use. “You haven’t seen him in awhile, but I think you know him well.”

Izzy helps their grandfather out into the room, his walker thudding across the floor. Matt holds himself as ístill as he can.

Izzy is tracking between their two faces, the old man’s breathing suddenly gone sharp and hoarse. “Izzy girl,” he says, bewildered and confused, “Izzy girl, your da’s gone, isn’t he? He’s been dead for years.”

“I know Grandpa,” Izzy starts to say, her voice still gentle, but Grandpa Hudson keeps talking, “Then who’s that standing there? That’s never Jack Murdock, is it? It can’t be.”

“No, Gramps,” says Izzy quietly. “That’s Matt, my brother. Jack’s son.”

The old man stays very still for a moment, before slowly coming forward again. Matt moves to meet him and then stops again as a warm, wrinkled, fragile hand rests itself on his cheek. With his free hand (and it’s only shaking slightly), Matt pulls off his glasses and lets his grandfather see his face. He can smell the salt beginning to form in the air.

"Jack’s boy!” whispers Hudson Brennan. “Jack’s boy, with Maggie’s eyes! Mattie boy, _ma chroí_.” Both hands rest on his face now and without thinking, Matt takes his grandfather’s arms to steady him. “Little Mattie,” says Grandpa Hudson, voice gone blurry with tears and laughter. “Not so little now, eh?”

“No,” Matt says, his own voice thick, “I’m not. I’m--going to be twenty-nine soon.”

“Oh my Mattie boy,” says Grandpa Hudson, still letting his hands rest on his grandson’s cheeks. “Mattie boy, I can die happy now, seeing you and my Izzy-girl. I can rest peacefully.”

“Don’t go talking about that yet Gramps,” says Izzy, trying to sound brisk but not quite managing it, there’s a suspicious amount of salt in her air as well. “Come on, sit down and I’ll brew tea or coffee or something. And you can tell Matt about--about how mom and dad met.”    

//

“I trained him,” Grandpa Hudson says over tea and coffee--tea for him, coffee for Matt and Izzy, because he can’t have caffeine.  “I trained your da, when he was young. Young and _strong_ , Holy Mary! You never saw anyone take a punch like Jack Murdock when he was in his prime. And my Maggie, she’d come around the gym sometimes, here and there when I was training him and she’d _watch_ him. Watch him like he put all the sun and the stars in the sky, she did. And he looked at her the same way.”

He went silent for a while, remembering. “In the beginning, I think, your da thought it would only be a few fights, here and there. Win one here, lose a few more. It was easier to count on money that way, to be sure he’d get paid at the end of the night. But it hurt Maggie’s pride, it did, to have him come home after another fight he could’ve won.” Grandpa Hudson shook his head mournfully. “And your da, he got angry that she didn’t understand he was doing the best he could to provide for them. He never raised a hand to your mother, though a lesser man might’ve. But they couldn’t live peaceably together. And your mam decided she’d had enough.”

Izzy wraps her hands around her coffee mug, not really drinking it, just absorbing the warmth. Matt listens to their heartbeats, his sister’s strong, steady one and his grandfather’s slower, weaker one, the warmth of the little kitchen. “She tried,” murmurs Grandpa Hudson, “she honestly did, my Maggie. Maybe it wasn’t enough, but there it was.” He turns to Matt, old hands outstretched, Matt can hear the cracks and breaks in the bones, an old fighter’s hands still strong but they shake ever so slightly. “He brought you to see me once,” he says, in a voice as fragile as a cobweb. “Jack did. You were but a wee babe, just learning to walk, but you had the Murdock devil in you, anyone could see that. And your da, he worried about it, he did. Didn’t want you to end up like him. And I told him, I did, I told him it was fine, a boy needs something to make him strong in this world, because God knows Hell’s Kitchen does no man any favors, but I told him to teach you that kindness and strength could be one and the same, and you’d be fine. And then my Izzy girl came along, all fire and fierceness, and she found you, didn’t she? She found you. So it’s alright. The Murdocks shouldn’t be alone.”

Izzy’s hands curls so tightly around her coffee mug he thinks it might shatter. Grandpa Hudson blinks and looks around the room, before focusing in on Matt again. “Jack?” His voice is painfully hopeful. “Jack, boy? Is that you?”

//

They’re quiet on the cab ride home.  Izzy rests her head against the window without speaking and Matt stays silent. It’s not a time for words.

When they finally make it back to the apartment, Izzy curls up on his couch, knees against her chest, and Matt hesitates only for a second before sitting down next to her. Izzy shifts so she’s resting her head on his shoulder.

They’re quiet for a little while longer before Izzy draws in a breath and says quietly, “I don’t really know about all this ‘Murdock devil’ thing, but I’m glad I found you, Matt. I’m really glad.”

He’s not good at this and neither is she, but he puts his arm around her and it’s his turn to kiss the crown of her head.

“We’re gonna be fine,” she tells him firmly, like she can make it true through sheer force of will. “You and me, two Murdock kids against the world. We’re gonna be okay.”

His sister claims she doesn’t have any faith, but she’s the most steadfast person he’s ever known.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank Maine for her lovely second chapter to Growing Up Murdock, which inspired the Grandpa Hudson scene


	4. you better keep the wolf back from the door

His sister is dying.

She’s lying in his arms, bleeding out on the floor of Nelson & Murdock, Claire is there, pressing her hands to the wound in Izzy’s side, Karen is clutching Izzy’s hand and talking frantically, Foggy is gripping Matt’s shoulder and Stick--Stick is _there_ , silent and unmoving.

His sister is dying and it is _all Matt’s fault_.

Because she wanted to _help_ , she wanted to help him be Daredevil, because she was _good_ at it, good at running by Matt’s side and helping him take on the dark streets of Hell’s Kitchen, good at fighting and watching his back, good at keeping the devil in Matt’s soul at bay.

His sister is dying and some part of him is going to go with her.

//

It started out innocently enough. She’d asked him to teach her how to box like their dad did, and somehow, that translated in teaching her how to scale up walls, run across rooftops, to put aside distractions and concentrate, how to use meditation to help her focus. He hadn’t even thought of it, it was just him and Izzy, running wild, two Murdock kids against the world.

Then he’d gone out on patrol one Friday night. And she’d gone with him.

“I’m not going to get better if I don’t _practice_ Matt,” she’d said, so utterly reasonable. “And you pull your punches.”

 _“Slander,_ ” Matt said and she’d laughed.

 **** “C’mon Mattie,” she’d urged, leaning forward, excitement pouring off her in waves, like maybe some other teenage girl would ask to go a concert or shopping. “Let’s go be devils.”

Because he was an idiot and not worthy of being _anyone’s_ guardian, let alone his nineteen year old sister, he’d agreed. She’d gone with him.

And she’d been _good_ at it. They stuck to his usual muggers and looters, low-level gang members. He’d let her handle a would-be date rapist, and she’d taken an unholy joy in breaking the man’s nose and his right arm. They’d come back to his apartment high on adrenaline and for once, he didn’t have to call Claire to ask if he could come through her fire escape window. Izzy had watched his back that well.

And she’d gone with him, again and again. People started to talk about the _two_ Devils of Hell’s Kitchen, one of them with a long braid of red hair that whipped around her shoulders and laughed as she fought.

Eventually, he’d taken a harder hit than he and Izzy could care for by themselves. She’d taken him to Claire’s, simply banged on Claire’s bedroom window and all but shoved Matt into it when Claire opened it, cursing Matt’s name before he even hit the carpet. “I know, I’m sorry,” Izzy said, managing to drag Matt to the couch. “But this is more than my dinosaur bandaids could fix.”

“I don’t--” Claire stopped in the middle of her rant, taking a closer look at the black-masked figure at Matt’s side. _“Izzy?”_

Izzy yanked off the mask over her eyes, eerily similar to Matt’s original one. “Hey Claire,” she’d said brightly, like this was a coffee date. “I’m alright, thanks for asking, but this idiot needs your help.”

“I _had_ the guy,” Matt complains.

“No you didn’t,” Izzy says, with a truly frightening amount of long-suffering patience. _“I_ had him, and _you_ got a piece of glass in your ribs for your pains.”

Claire waves her hands in the air, gesticulating wildly to get their attention. “I don’t have _time_ for this,” she said furiously. “I need to get my kit. Izzy, make sure he doesn’t almost bleed to death on my couch-- _again_.”

Izzy reached in and start peeling away Matt’s armor. “Again?” her voice was cool, loaded with meaning.

"It was a one time thing,” Matt says.

“No it wasn’t,” Claire snaps, coming in again. “The next time you did it, it was on _your_ couch.”

“ _Your_ couch?!” Izzy demanded and Matt groaned. This was just what he needed, the two women he cared about most comparing _notes_ on him.

Between Izzy and Claire’s efforts, he was in relative shape to leave in much less time than it usually took. He could feel Claire’s agitation and Izzy’s calm refusal to notice it.

“What are you doing, Izzy?” Claire asked calmly--far too calmly. “With your brother, tonight. What do you think you’re doing?”

“I don’t _think_ I’m doing anything,” Izzy replied coolly. “I am making sure my brother doesn’t do something supremely stupid, like get himself killed as he takes on every criminal element in Hell’s Kitchen.”

“Do you have any idea what you’re getting yourself into?” Claire asks.

“I’ve been doing this with Matt for about five weeks,” Izzy says matter of factly. “And I have seen some _shit_ , let me tell you. But that isn’t going to stop me.”

Claire’s fingers tighten in her sterile gloves. “He should never let you do this.”

“... _Let_ me?” Izzy says softly, her voice a quiet knife. “He’s not _letting_ me do anything, he’s not _making_ me do anything, I _chose_. I chose to help my brother and make sure I still have one by the end of the night. Because he’s going to keep doing this as long as he’s breathing, and between the two of us, I want to _keep_ him breathing. For as long as I can. And if that means I run around the streets at night, cracking names and taking skulls, then so help me God, I will do it.”

Matt can feel lies, he can feel attraction and truth, and his sister burns with truth like a bonfire in his face. 

Claire silently peels off her gloves, tosses them away. She rubs her eyes, and the bridge of her nose. “What happens when _you_ get hurt?”

“I figure you can handle one more batshit crazy Murdock,” Izzy says, the knife like grin he knows from listening to her fight in her voice. “Besides, the way I see it, I have a few considerable advantages over Matt.”

“Yeah? Like what?” Claire asks warily.

Izzy counts them off on her fingers. “One, I’m younger than he is, a lot more resilient. Second, _Matt’s_ the voice of reason in charge of this flying umbrella, so I keep him in check and he has to think twice before he attempts any heroics. And third, my superhero origin story is almost the exact same as his, but I’m a girl, so the narrative is going to be a lot more interesting.”

Matt and Claire both look at her, one with seeing eyes and the other tracking uselessly.

“Still think I’m crazy?” Izzy asks.

“Worse,” Claire says, staring at her. “I think you were born for this.”

And she had been, Matt realized then. Another Murdock child with the devil in them, putting it to use.

//

Her heartbeat’s erratic and her breathing shallow. She’s clinging to Matt like a child frightened of the dark.

“Mattie, Mattie,” she whispers, “Mattie I’m scared--”

“Don’t talk,” he tells her, trying to keep her still for Claire’s hands. “Don’t try to talk, save your strength.”

She lets out a choking laugh. “Y-you s-say that like it’s possible.”

He shuts his eyes. Only Izzy would joke at a time like this.

Stick, the cruel, useless bastard, takes one step forward, his cane tapping the ground. “Didn’t I tell you I had it under control?”

“Like I trust you to get it right,” Izzy spits out and her body shudders under Matt’s hands. “Mattie--”

She took a knife to the side and didn’t even _tell him,_ the stupid, stupid girl and Matt has no one but himself to blame for this habit of Izzy’s, this trait she picked up from him.

 “Mattie,” she says again, her fingers opening and closing uselessly on the front of his armor, “Mattie, I don’t--”

“For once in your life, Isabelle Murdock, do as you’re told and be quiet,” he says more ferociously than he intends and she _laughs_ , the impossible girl.

“I’m not--” she tries again, through a mouth full of blood, “I’m not sorry Matt. I’d do it all again, I would, Mattie. I don’t regret any of it.”

The devil in him is screaming for release and he can’t do anything but cling to his sister. “Don’t,” he tells her, _“don’t.”_

Her heart is making one more effort, one more immense, incredible effort, like everything she does. “I love,” she says, the first time they’ve ever said out loud, it didn’t _need_ to be said, “I love--”

Her heart shudders once and gives out.

Izzy is lying in his arms, silent and unmoving and from somewhere very far away, Matt can hear Karen crying, Claire trying to keep in her sobs and Foggy’s low, anguished muttering. Stick is silent.

Izzy, brave Izzy, strong, reckless, beautiful, wild and bulletproof, one more Murdock gone and for _no reason--_

He wants to howl like a wounded animal and there’s no coming back from this. There is no salvation or redemption. There won’t be anything left of him, Matt Murdock, only the devil and darkness.

“To hell with your rules,” says Stick to no one and kneels down, not very gently pushing Claire out of his path. “Matt, get up off your knees and _move_.”

//

His sister didn’t like Stick, hadn’t liked him from the moment she’d laid eyes on him and made no effort to hide it. He’d arrived as abruptly as he ever did, telling Matt he’d missed something in taking apart the gangs that were rising up in the absence of the Japanese and Russians.

Izzy had not been impressed by his appearance.

“Hello asshole,” was how she’d greeted him for when he’d showed up in their apartment, arms folded across her chest. “What do _you_ want?”  

Stick had stopped in his tracks, head cocked to one side for a minute before asking flatly, “She’s a little young for you, isn’t she Matt?”

“Asshole,” Izzy said again, contempt thick in her voice. “I’m his sister.”

Another pause before Stick said disgustedly, “Just what this world needs. _More_ Murdocks.”

“I am getting tired,” Izzy said impatiently, “of that being everyone’s reaction whenever I tell them I’m Matt’s sister. Maybe more Murdocks is _exactly_ what the world needs.”

Matt isn’t sure whether to run for cover or laugh until his sides ache at this exchange. Izzy would be the only person to be completely unimpressed with Stick.

Izzy and Stick seemed to stand off like two suspicious alley cats, circling around to see who will strike first. “He told you about me, did he?” said Stick finally.

“Enough,” said Izzy curtly. In fact, Matt had only told her the absolute basics of his relationship with Stick, but his sister had drawn her own conclusions. She stood at Matt’s side, already braced for a fight.

Stick made an impatient noise. “Enough of this. You’ve nearly screwed this up beyond fixing, Matt, but there’s a chance to do something about it. You’ve missed something in cleaning up after the Russians and yakuza.”

Matt asked flatly, “Is it killing more children?” Izzy made no sound, only the slightest shift in her stance, putting her weight on the balls of her feet.

Stick snorted derisively. “Still not over that, are you?” When neither of them replied, he continued, “What remains of the yakuza is bringing something in, more men under new leadership. If you want to do something about it, meet me at the docks at midnight.” He added, “Just you, Matt.”

Izzy came with him.

“I thought,” Stick said, slowly and ominously as they approached,“I told you to come alone.”

“And here I am, disobeying,” Matt replied pleasantly. “Strange how the world works.”

Izzy pulled the subtly horned hood she’d taken to wearing over her head. “He works better when I’m watching his back.”

“He’d work better _alone_ ,” Stick said and was ignored.

Izzy scouted ahead, her black hoodie vanishing in the shadows. Matt and Stick listened for her heartbeat and footsteps.

“Since when do you have a sister?” Stick asked abruptly.

“For nineteen years,” Matt retorted in a whisper. “She found me three months ago.” He paused. Only three months since Izzy came crashing through his office door. She was going to graduate high school in four weeks.

“And now she lives with you,” said Stick and Matt refused to respond.

“She should be trained,” Stick said softly, still listening. “She’s got-- _something_ , Matthew, something extra. I don’t know exactly what, but there is something. Enough that she should be learning.”

“She learns fine with me,” Matt replied tersely. He did not want Izzy anywhere _near_ Stick’s style of teaching if he could possibly help it.

“With _you?_ You haven’t even scratched the surface of what you’re capable of,” Stick replied contemptuously. “Of what _she’s_ capable of.”   

Izzy returned before Matt could respond, sliding soundlessly back in with them. “Ten men, all armed, big guns, waiting,” she rattled off. “More coming, but I think it’s just a decoy. Something’s coming, something big, but I can’t see what.”

“See?” Stick inquired and Izzy only shook her head impatiently.

“I _know_ , okay?” she said, dismissing the question. “The air’s not _right._ ”

Stick only turns to Matt, clearly awaiting an explanation for this, but Matt just rises to his feet, a horned and mythical figure against the moon. “Show us where, Iz.”

His sister takes off again, the two of them close behind. Matt knew enough by now not to discount Izzy’s hunches. Izzy _knew things_ , the same way he did, and her guesses were rarely, if ever, wrong.

They weren’t been wrong tonight and later, he almost wishes they had been.  

Izzy had been right; the men at the dock had been a decoy. The fight had been quick, brutal and efficient and the smell of blood so thick he had missed his sister taking a knife to side. Until it was over and they had gotten safely away, when they stopped running, Izzy was swaying back and forth on her feet. In a slow, puzzled way, she touched her side, and her hands came away bloody. “Matt?” she said, her voice suddenly small and terrifyingly young.

He’d caught her before she hit the ground.   

//

Stick is kneeling at Izzy’s side, one hand on her forehead and the other on her heart.

 **** _"Don’t touch her,”_ Matt snarls, his voice as inhuman as it’s ever been and as usual, Stick pays no attention to him.

“Say her name, Matthew,” commands Stick quietly. “Say her name, all of it.”

“I can’t--” Matt croaks but Stick snarls, _“Do it!”_ and Matt says her name, her full name, out loud.

“Isabelle Brigid Murdock.” _Sister, friend, ally, student, artist, heart of my heart--_

“Again, Matt,” Stick orders. “Call her back.”

  
Matt doesn’t even know what’s happening anymore, but he does it, God alone knows why.  “Isabelle Brigid Murdock, you better come back here _right now_ or so help me God--” he chokes, doesn’t even know if God hears him anymore, but he says it anyways, “Come back, Izzy, do you hear me, come back or I’ll come after you, I swear I will, I will go down to the river between life and death and I will _drag you back_ , so help me God I will Izzy. Do you hear me?”

“Again,” Stick commands. “One more time, Matt.”

“Isabelle Brigid Murdock,” he says, putting everything she is and he is in his sister’s name. _Little sister, I love--_

Izzy’s body jerks under Stick’s hands. Matt hears a heartbeat like the roar of a furnace, a thundering demand.  He feels Izzy’s eyes fly open and she lets out a gasp for air that ends in a violent coughing attack. Her skin feels like fever and her hands outstretched towards him, her first move to find him.

There are reactions around them, voices raised in an outcry and Matt registers this, but his sister’s face is buried in his shoulder, one hand clutching at his hair and the other pressing between his shoulderblades.

“Mattie,” she says wildly, incoherently, into his skin, “Mattie, Matthew, I was--”

“She’s going to be tired for the next few days,” says Stick curtly. “Let her rest. She might--be changed when she wakes.”

“Changed?” Matt chokes out but Izzy is sagging against him, falling into true unconsciousness.

He takes her home, surrounded by people who aren’t related to them but family anyway, listening to her heartbeat and her breathing the entire way, afraid to stop even for a moment.

//

Izzy sleeps for three days straight. In the interim, Nelson & Murdock is temporarily closed and Karen and Foggy help Matt with caring for her when Claire’s at the hospital. It takes all of Foggy and Karen’s persuasive powers to convince Matt to sleep in his own bed, not on the floor by Izzy’s. Her heartbeat is--different. It seems to beat faster than usual, yet smoothly. Stick leaves and doesn’t return until the third day, when Izzy is awake and sitting up and trying to convince Matt to let her eat breakfast at the table.

“I’m _starving,”_ she says fervently and as if to further convince him, her stomach growls audibly.

“Let the girl eat,” says Stick impatiently, sliding in ghost like, as usual. “You won’t do any good babying her.”

Matt finally agrees and Izzy promptly eats four pieces of toast and six scrambled eggs, three cups of yogurt and two of the cinnamon rolls that Karen brought. “You’re going to make yourself sick,” Karen scolds and Izzy shakes her head.

“I feel like I could eat a horse,” she says frankly, finally pushing her well polished plate away.

Claire comes as well, having thankfully the day off. She checks Izzy over thoroughly, the younger girl shifting impatiently as she listens to her heartbeat, checks her pulse and reflexes. “You seem to be incredibly healthy to me,” says Claire carefully. “For a girl who got stabbed in the side and bled out.”

Izzy stops moving abruptly and stares at the floor. “I guess I am,” she says softly. “I--I don’t know why, though.”  Her head tilts in Stick’s direction.

The old man grunts. “What do you _think_ I did, child?”

Three days earlier, Izzy would’ve spat some insult at him. Now she sits quietly, her eyes far away. “It--it wasn’t you,” she says finally. “I mean--I didn’t hear you, I heard Matt. He was yelling at me.” Her brows draw together, remembering. “I remember--falling. And the landing hurt like _hell.”_

Stick grunts again. “You hadn’t gone very far. All I had to do was pull you back. Matt did the rest.”

“Gone far?” Izzy says, almost whispering. “I _died_. I _died_ and I was--I saw--” Her body trembles once, violently. “What did you _do?_ ”

“It’s an old skill girl,” says Stick. “A very old skill. If you live long enough--again--I might teach it to you.” Izzy blinks at this and another bone-trembling shudder goes through her.

“Breathe, child,” says Stick, as unyielding as stone. “Drink something before you fall over.”

Izzy gets up slowly, as if not trusting her own body’s reactions, and serves herself a cup of coffee and gets one for the rest of them as well. She curls her hands around it for warmth and shudders at some memory, her hands squeezing the mug tightly. There is a small, distinct cracking sound, like ice in a glass of warm water, then shards of china and coffee goes flying everywhere. Izzy yelps in alarm as the mess hits the floor.  

Everyone except Stick jumps at the sound. “Ah,” he says, as if his waiting for something has just ended, “the side effects.”

“S--side effects?” Izzy chokes out, staring at the puddle of coffee and pieces of mug. No one moves to clean it up.

“You’re going to be stronger now,” Stick tells her calmly. “Stronger, faster, your gifts enhanced. Like your brother.” Izzy’s head snaps around in Matt’s direction, but he’s not sure what help he can offer her at the moment. “You died, child,” says Stick, as usual refusing to soften anything. “And you were brought back, but there was a price to it. The price is that you give something up.”

Izzy should be shaking like a leaf in a gale, but her body is unnaturally calm and still, her heartbeat flowing like water. Most people make the world around them move to suit them; Izzy moves _herself_. “You had a talent before,” Stick adds. “Your hunches, your instincts. They’re are going to be stronger now than they ever were and the rest of you is going to catch up. You’re going to need teaching.”

“Matt--” Izzy starts to say immediately, but Stick cuts her off.

“Your brother,” he growls out, “has not even begun to understand his own talents, whatever _those_ might be. I can’t do anything for him because he’s a stubborn son of a bitch--” Izzy and Matt both flinch at this-- “but I _might_ , I just _might_ be able to do something for you. If you wish to do something _useful_ with them, not waste them here in Hell’ Kitchen.”

Izzy’s whole body seems to coil up like a striking snake’s. “Waste?” her voice is deadly quiet.

“You could be stronger than your brother,” says Stick, as if she hasn’t spoken. “Stronger than him, _better_ than him. You wouldn’t need anyone, girl. You’d a true warrior and no one, _no one,_ would ever dare harm you again.” His head tilts, his own voice going frighteningly soft now. “You would never be weak again, child. Not ever.”

Matt hears his sister’s heartbeat spike, her breathing go faster at the words and shuts his eyes. “Izzy--”

“Let her choose,” Stick says. “She should choose for herself, like you did.”

Somewhere along the way, Claire’s hand finds his and Matt grips it like a lifeline as he counts his sister’s heartbeats.

_One, two, three, four, five--_

Izzy lets her breath go, a long release. Her shoulders go down, something goes loose in her posture. She’s decided and Matt senses her future swinging back and forth like a pendulum.

“No thank you,” Izzy replies politely, but firmly. “I would rather not.”

There is iron underneath the courtesy and Stick must sense this, because the cane stretches out, like he’s going to come closer but doesn’t quite dare. _“...No?”_

“What am I supposed to do, throw over my education to become a ninja?” Izzy asks. She sounds more like herself, sharp edges in her voice. “I’ve got _plans_ and none of them involve running off to go join your weird ass war against--who are you even fighting against, anyway? The _deaf_?”

Foggy makes a strangled choking sound and Karen clamps a hand over her mouth. Matt doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry, but his pressure on Claire’s hand increases. She squeezes just as hard back.

“So no,” Izzy goes on, “I am not interested in learning under you, _ever_. Matt and I manage just fine on our own. So, are you done? Because I am.”

Stick withdraws from them, chill emanating from him like the depths of winter. “A waste,” he says viciously, bitterly. “An utter goddamn waste.”

Izzy stoops briefly, picking up a shard of china from the ground. She hefts it in her hand like it’s a skipping stone and then, quick as lightning, she throws it at Stick’s face, her wrist flicking out in one sharp motion. The barest edge catches him on the cheek, a fine cut appearing.

Stick takes a step back like a man encountering a snarling wolf.

Izzy smiles knife-like, looking for new places to cut, Matt can feel it. “Get out of our city,” she says, her voice a match for viciousness.

His sister is burning bright, the torch to Matt’s dark.

****


	5. hold my gaze love, you know I want to let it go

Izzy’s been gone for almost five weeks.

Intellectually, he’s aware how incredibly qualified his sister is to take care of herself. She’s twenty-six, taking on her first deep undercover case for her private detective agency.  The case is in upstate New York, investigating a missing person in a commune, of all things. Izzy has her suspicions that it’s a cover for an human trafficking ring, but she won’t let him come with her to investigate. “It might rouse suspicions,” she explained the last time she’d had dinner with him and Claire. “A lone girl makes a much more appealing target if it _is_ human trafficking.”

She’d been calm about it, even dispassionate, but he knows Izzy. Wherever she’s going, she’s going to unleash a special brand of Murdock hell on whoever deserves it.

It’d been years since Stick had...brought her back, and Izzy had been distinctly and irrevocably changed. She was stronger, faster, and her hunches had gotten so accurate they bordered on foresight. His sister always had an uncanny knack of reading people’s faces, now it was even sharper than ever.

She would’ve made a good lawyer, not even that, she would’ve been a _great_ lawyer, but in the end, decided against it. “I don’t have the patience for that much schooling,” she told him frankly after she graduated high school. “I’ll major in criminal law, but we’ll see how that goes.”

She hadn’t had the patience for being a cop either (Brett Mahoney had been relieved; a Murdock in law enforcement seemed like a PR nightmare waiting to happen), but she was a excellent and now widely respected private investigator.

Matt was proud of her, fiercely so, but he still worried when she dropped off the grid for longer than a week. She had warned him she wouldn’t be able to contact him, but promised to do so if it was a true emergency and she needed him.

So he waited for his phone to start saying her name as the days went by and everyone scolded him for being a typical worried, overprotective older brother.

It’s a Sunday evening and he’s got Claire’s feet on his lap in apartment, absently rubbing the arch and her instep, as Foggy untangles their latest case and Karen sorts through papers when his phone starts declaring, _“IZZY, IZZY, IZZY…”_

Foggy immediately looks up from his papers and Karen half turns to the sound of it. Claire instantly pulls her feet from his lap, letting him get up and lunge for the phone. “Iz?"

His sister’s voice, tired and assuring, fills his ear. “Hey there Matt.”

He shuts his eyes in relief. “Are you okay?”

“Making friends everywhere I go,” is her wry response, family codeword for _‘I had to kick major ass.’_ “I’m fine, just tired,” she assures him. “None the worse for wear.

“Put her on speaker,” Foggy stage whispers and Matt waves a hand in acknowledgement.

“Hang on,” he tells her, and uses the voice commands to turn on the speaker. “Okay, go.”

“Hey guys,” Izzy calls, her voice echoing. “Everyone okay?”

“Are _you_ okay?” Karen asks immediately, and Izzy sighs.

“I can walk,” she replies, her tone heavy with irony. “Which is more than I can say for the other guy.”

“Are you going to show up on the news again?” Claire says dryly and Izzy’s eye roll is practically audible.

“That was _one time_ ,” she complains. “Honestly. Matt ends up on the news more than I do.”

“Stop prevaricating,” Matt commands impatiently. “Where are you?”

“In a hotel in Buffalo,” Izzy replies. “With my client. We’ll be back in New York by tomorrow.”

“You got a car?” Matt asks. “That’s a six hour drive.”

Izzy lets out a sound like a frustrated growl. “Oh, I got a car, trust me.”  

He knows that tone. That is Izzy’s “I-am-ten-seconds-away-from-punching-someone” tone. Alarm bells go off in Matt’s head. “What happened? Did the case go okay?”

Izzy goes abruptly silent. He can almost picture her rubbing the bridge of her nose, a habit she picked up from Claire. “The case--went slightly sideways,” she says finally, carefully. It isn’t like Izzy to dance around a subject. “It’s fine now and I got my client out, but things got...complicated.”

“Complicated,” Matt echoes. “What does that look like?”

“I don’t want to talk about it over the phone,” Izzy says with finality.

“Is someone with you?” Foggy asks.

“No, but I can’t be sure someone’s not listening,” Izzy replies tersely. “Look, I’ll be home tomorrow and I’ll tell you then, I promise. I was just calling to check in and tell you I was fine.”

His sister is leaving something out. He’s not sure what, but he can sense tension in her like a coiled spring. “Isabelle,” Matt says softly, using her full proper name now, “what do you hear?”

A pause and then a long sigh, a sound of release. “Nothing but the rain, Matthew,” she replies, their phrase for checking in with the other, a shorthand for _‘Are you on the level?’_  “I’ll see you tomorrow,” she says again, finally and firmly. “I love you, okay? All of you.”

“Love you too,” Matt tells her. “Stay safe.”

An amused snort. “Don’t I always? See you tomorrow, brother.”

//

On Monday evening, Izzy arrives at his apartment, to him and Claire cooking. She lets herself in with her key and Claire goes to greet her. Matt hears her exclaim in dismay and astonishment, “Your hair! What happened to it?”

“Got into a fight with pair of clippers,” Izzy replies brightly, but she smells like a long day of travel, stale clothes and running on coffee. Matt pushes the pan off the burner and goes to greet his sister, hearing her bag hit the floor as she accepts Claire’s embrace.

“Hey there Mattie,” she says, a weary smile in her voice and Matt pulls her into his arms.

He brushes his fingers over her head, the rough-soft texture against his palm. “How did this happen?”

His sister’s hair is... _cropped_ , almost shorn to her skull. Before she left, it had been long, almost down to her waist, thrown over her shoulder in a braid or pinned up haphazardly. It had been one of her few vanities and one of Matt’s ways of identifying her approach, the sound of her braid brushing against her clothes as she walked. The loss of it feels like missing a step in the dark and falling.

She shrugs in his arms. “Long story,” she says. “I’ll tell it when everyone’s here. Foggy and Karen are coming, right?”

“Of course,” says Claire, taking her bag and putting it on the futon, where Izzy still sleeps if it’s a late night and she’s too tired to make it back to her apartment after patrolling with Matt. “You want something to drink?”

“I’d commit a minor felony for a decent cup of coffee,” Izzy says, letting Matt guide her to the sofa. “Not any of that crappy beer Matt’s got.”

“Everyone’s a critic,” Matt complains and he’s reasonably certain Claire and Izzy exchange eye rolls.

Izzy just sort of--collapses onto the sofa, kicks off her shoes and curls up, letting the sound of the apartment wash over her. Matt and Claire finish cooking, Foggy and Karen arrive and both exclaim over her hair. She’s putting on a good show, but Matt can sense the exhaustion rolling off Izzy and if Matt’s any judge she hasn’t been eating properly for--an worrying amount of time. She felt too lean in his arms, too sharply thin.

Izzy eats dinner slowly, like she’s getting used to the taste of food. About halfway through, she has to stop and vomit up everything she’s eaten. Claire scolds her for eating as Matt locates a can of soup and a pot.

“I thought I could handle it,” she groans as she sips from a glass of water. “God, I haven’t eaten real food since I started this stupid case.”

“Which is why you should’ve had soup,” Karen says severely.

Izzy squeezes her eyes shut. “Please don’t scold me, I really cannot take this right now.”

Matt sets aside the soup for now and goes to stand at Izzy’s shoulder. He cards a hand through what’s left of his sister’s hair. “Do you want to sleep now or later?”

Izzy breathes deeply through her nose before sitting up. “Sleep later. I promised you the story.”

They put aside finishing dinner for the time being, sitting in Matt’s living room, Izzy curled into her brother’s side, Claire on her left, Foggy in the armchair across the way and Karen on Matt’s right. Izzy closes her eyes and uses the deep breathing techniques Matt showed her when she was first learning to meditate.

“I was right,” she says finally. “It _was_ a human trafficking ring.” She doesn’t sound triumphant or satisfied with being right, just drained. “The head of the commune--this guy named Abraham Wentworth, like _that’s_ not a loaded name, he was luring people in and making a tidy profit on the side.” Izzy’s voice is incredibly calm and even, but Matt can sense the slow-burning fury in it. “But it wasn’t so much that as--what he was selling them _for_.” The smallest of tremors ripples through her. She is afraid and furious at whatever happened.

“I got my hair cut off when they found me trying to find weak spots in the electrified fence,” she says.  “In front of everyone too. I didn’t mind that so much as I did the leader’s yammering on and on about how the outside world was the gateway to hell.” Izzy’s voice thickens with fury. “God, I wanted to _smash_ his face in.” She shook off the memory. “At any rate, I managed to find out my client, the girl I was sent to find, Mercy Levi, was supposed to be-- _accepted_ as they called it, or in other words, disappear next and I had to move fast--to get her out and find out what happened to the other--the other people.”  She stops, takes a deep breath and then another. “I snuck into Wenworth’s office the night before and found papers--bills of sale, things like that.” Izzy’s voice is tight with rage at the memory. “A lot of them were being shipped out to some place in Central Europe, I’m not even sure where. But it was who they were being sold to that made it so much worse.”

Matt genuinely can’t imagine anything that could make the situation even worse but Izzy, like all the Murdocks, has the worst luck imaginable. “HYDRA,” she says, no louder than a whisper. “They were getting sold to HYDRA.”

“Wait, hang on on a second,” Foggy says. “HYDRA? Neo-Nazis? The guys who infiltrated SHIELD behind everyone’s collective backs? Captain America’s sworn enemies? _That_ HYDRA?”

“Is there another HYDRA we don’t know about?” Izzy asks acerbically. “Yes Foggy, _that_ HYDRA. They had a human trafficking ring for--for finding people for new _scientific experimentation_ and I walked right into it.”

“Jesus _Christ_ ,” Matt mutters and Izzy pokes his ribs gently.

“That’s ten Hail Marys Matt,” she says, but the flash of humor fades out. “So. I had to get myself and Mercy out, take down the ring and HYDRA and do it without getting myself killed. No pressure right?” Her tone becomes sourly exasperated. “Because of course, no one expects a _mere civilian_ to manage anything on her own."

“Izzy,” Matt prompts her and Izzy lets out a huge sigh of pure irritation.

“SHIELD got involved,” she says. “Actual SHIELD, not-infiltrated-by-HYDRA SHIELD. Apparently, they’re still around. They barged in being all _heroic_ and _secret agent-y,_ and _I_ got detained for ten hours as they tried to figure how out how I, a mere civilian and private investigator, not even a _federal agent_ , managed to break up the ring, get the people out and find the appropriate incriminating documents.” She sniffed, displaying her deep disapproval and disdain. “Assholes. Anyway, I got my girl out, stayed in a hotel, and drove home. I got Mercy back to her parents before I came here.” She let a another huge sigh. “I didn’t want to talk about it on the phone because I wasn’t entirely sure if they hadn’t bugged it somehow.” She raises her head, looking around with the room with a frown. “To be honest, I’m not sure they’re not listening in right this very second.”

“They aren’t,” Matt says. “I would’ve heard them or sensed something.”

Izzy huffs. “Well thank goodness for small mercies.” She sounds more grumpy than the slow-building fury that haunted her tone, but Matt isn’t fooled. His sister is seriously annoyed and sooner or later, someone’s getting punched in the face.

“I referred Mercy to you guys in case she wants legal counsel,” Izzy adds. “I’m not sure what good it’ll do, since the last time I saw, it was taken out of our hands, but I felt better for doing it.”

It’s not an official partnership between Nelson & Murdock and Murdock Investigations, but more often than not, Izzy sends her clients to them after she’s done with their case. “Better you than anyone else,” is her opinion and for the most part, it works out well. Izzy’s done well in the past few years, well enough to tangle with Neo-Nazi syndicates and shadowy organizations and come on the other side with her fists swinging.

Matt smooths down her hair, worry and love and pride and fear all tangled up like threads in his heart. “You think SHIELD got everything they needed from you?”

Izzy shrugs against him. “I think so. I hope so. But chances are good--” and Izzy knows all about _chances--_ “I’ll be seeing some of them again soon.”

Izzy’s hunches haven’t been wrong yet, and Matt thinks he knows better than to waste his time hoping they are.

He thinks.

//

Mercy Levi decides not to pursue legal action against the Community of the Accepted. It’s been taken care of by the feds, they’re told, but Izzy does recommend a good trauma therapist in Manhattan for her to see. Izzy drops by Nelson & Murdock (it actually _looks_ like a law firm now) to give them the news.

It’s there that someone walks in--a man, late forties to early fifties, walks like a soldier, all quiet, clipped efficiency, smells like gunpowder, jet exhaust, and subtle cologne, his suit perfectly tailored to a mid-sized average frame--

With a gun tucked neatly into the folds of his jacket.

Still, that’s not entirely out of the common, people walk around with weapons more often than you’d think on a daily basis, so Matt is prepared to greet him politely--

Until Izzy rises from her chair like the wrath of God in a leather jacket.

“ _You_ ,” she spits out, in a tone he hasn’t heard her use since she was a teenager. “What the _hell_ do you want?”   

“Ms. Murdock,” he says, as if they’re old friends, “you’re looking much better these days.”

“Like you give a _shit,_ ” Izzy seethes and she’s moving like an incoming inferno towards Matt, placing herself at his side, towering as much as being five-foot-nine can manage. “What do you want?”

“Let me introduce myself to your brother and his firm,” the stranger says mildly. “Phil Coulson, Director of SHIELD.”

Foggy takes a step back and Karen’s hands clamp down on the edge of her desk. “Jesus Christ on toast,” Izzy mutters and Matt’s too rattled to even smack her ankle with his cane like he usually would for blasphemy.

“I’ve heard very good things about this firm, Mr. Nelson, Mr. Murdock,” the Director of SHIELD adds. “You’ve made quite a name for yourselves in the past few years.”  

“We try,” Matt says flatly, gripping his cane for support. Izzy’s leaning forward on her toes like she does when they’re sparring and she’s looking for the next place to land a blow.

“As much good work as you’ve done, my interest is in your sister, Mr. Murdock,” Coulson says gently, as if in reassurance. It doesn’t work in the least. “I thought she’d be more comfortable discussing it with family present.” When no one moves, he suggests, “Maybe we should discuss this in conference room."

“No,” Izzy says flatly. “Right here is fine.” _Do not let him set the terms_ , is her unspoken message to Matt. _Do not let him choose the playing field._

Coulson takes this so in stride Matt _knows_ he expected this. “Very well,” he allows. “Ms. Murdock, I recently read a report you submitted to the FBI about the Community of Acceptance case.”

Izzy’s chin goes up ever so slightly. “Yeah? What about it?”

“I noticed that in your report, you make no mention of making allies or having contact within the community,” Coulson presses. “In fact, throughout your time there, you seem to work purely on instinct and guesses.”

Izzy's tone is unencouraging. “I had a hunch. Don’t you ever follow your hunches?"

“Many times,” Coulson concedes with a tilt of his head. “But I never had a hunch so accurate it bordered on foresight.”

Matt and Izzy both go still and tense. As a rule, Matt’s enhanced senses and Izzy’s near-psychic ability aren’t often discussed, even between themselves. It’s like talking about the color of their hair or their eyes, it’s just a fact that the Murdocks are not entirely...normal. Matt suddenly understands why Coulson’s rattled Izzy so badly. He’s with SHIELD; he deals with gods and monsters and legends and myths on a daily basis. What are they, a lawyer and a private investigator, two vigilantes, the Devils of Hell’s Kitchen, to someone like that? Outmatched and outclassed. Whatever it might be, Matt knows he and his sister have no interest in finding out.

“Ms. Murdock, this doesn’t have to be hostile,” says Coulson.

“Really?” Izzy’s tone is ice and acid. “Because you come uninvited to my brother’s office, depriving him of his work hours, _invading_ a place of business, in an attempt to interrogate me over doing my job? And doing it better than you and your army of spooks?”

“We’re hardly an army, Ms. Murdock,” says Coulson, a hint of ruefulness in his tone. It disappears instantly into something like incredibly polite sarcasm. “And when _you’ve_ been shanked in the back by the Asgardian Mussolini, _then_ you can talk about being ‘invaded.’”

They all blink at that.  “Ms. Murdock, as I’ve said, I didn’t come here to begin an argument,” Coulson says. “You did good work on the Community of Acceptance, _excellent_ work.”

“Not too bad for a _private eye?_ ” Izzy asks viciously, recovering her tongue.

“You’re not getting over that one anytime soon are you?” asks Coulson wearily. Judging by Izzy’s stony silence, she’s definitely glaring at him in response. “You did good work for _anyone_ , Ms. Murdock,” Coulson tells her. “Trained or untrained, your uncanny gift for being at the right place at the right time notwithstanding, you brought down another arm of HYDRA and you did it on your own. I’d be remiss in my duties if I didn’t at least try to follow up with you.”

“You’re welcome,” Izzy snaps. “Now leave.”

“That’s not what I came here to do,” Coulson says, unmoved. He reminds Matt of Stick, quiet, unshakable confidence of doing whatever needs doing. “I came here to offer you a job at SHIELD.”

No one’s jaws don’t quite drop, but it’s a close call. _“...What,”_ Izzy says finally and flatly.

“I’m here to offer you a job at SHIELD,” Coulson repeats patiently. “I think you could do very well there.”

“Very well,” Izzy echoes, and her hand moves in an automatic gesture to tug at her hair, but stops midway. “You want _me_ to work at SHIELD.”

“Since we were infiltrated by HYDRA, had every one of our secrets exposed, and officially, we were disavowed by every intelligence agency _and_ government in the known world,” says Coulson, his voice dry as dust, “our recruiting quota has been...low.”

“Has it now,” Izzy says, equally dry.

Coulson shrugs. “It is what it is, Ms. Murdock. But whether the world wants to admit it or not, it still needs SHIELD. In the meantime, we’re trying to rebuild from the ground up. And we need people, Ms. Murdock. Desperately. Strong, resourceful, intelligent, _gifted_ people like yourself.”

Izzy shakes her head, slow. “I’m sorry. But you are _really_ asking the wrong person for this. I’m not interested.”

“SHIELD has had a file on you since the Battle of New York,” Coulson says very quietly, with the air of a man using a long-awaited trump card. At his side, Izzy freezes and her muscles lock. “When reports of the battle mentioned a young girl in Hell’s Kitchen, cornered by hostile invaders, picking up an alien weapon and _fighting_ with it.” Coulson’s voice softens suddenly, even gentle, almost sympathetic. “You couldn’t have been any older than fourteen.

Izzy’s heartbeat escalates, her breath coming hard and fast and _painful._ “Fifteen,” she whispers. “I was--I was fifteen. And I didn’t even _do_ anything. I just watched three other cops get killed and nearly got my head bashed in.”

“According to the eyewitness of several agents who were on the scene at the time, you saved the life of three policemen and got a few bystanders to safety,” Coulson says gently. “That’s not _nothing_ by any means, Ms. Murdock.”

Izzy isn’t trembling, not exactly, but there are faint vibrations in her arms and hands, the need to _do something_ unable to manifest. “What do you _want,”_ she says finally. “Seriously, what.”

“I want you to come work for SHIELD,” says Coulson quietly and simply. “Because you would do well, and we have great need.”

Izzy’s legs don’t exactly go out from under her, but it’s close. She leans into the edge of Matt’s desk, looking around the offices of Nelson & Murdock.

His sister has followed him into crime dens, back alleys and stood at his side for criminals and kingpins, loss and joy. She’s gone where she shouldn’t have been able to come back from, and returned to him with her fists swinging. She always, _always_ gets back up--and she’s always come home.

“No,” Izzy says again, just as quiet, just as firm. “This is my _life_ we are talking about here, and I’m not about to upend it because of some abstract concept. I’ve spent a very long time trying to get my practice off the ground, and I’m--I’m good at what I do, Director Coulson. And I’m not interested in leaving Hell’s Kitchen.”

“You have other commitments,” Coulson says. “Your family’s here. I can understand that, even respect it. But I _must_ strongly urge you to consider SHIELD.”

“And I said no,” Izzy replies. “So what now?”

There is a slight shift in Coulson’s facial muscles, a silent exhale of the lungs. “Then I leave you to think about it, Ms. Murdock. If you change your mind--” he reaches into his jacket, pulls out something small, rectangular, expensive cardstock paper-- “you’ll know how to contact me.”

Izzy reluctantly accepts the card and holds it between two fingers like it might explode. “My work number’s on that card,” Coulson says. “If you change your mind, or you need help with something in a case--” he gestures towards it-- “call that number and I’ll see what I can do. It might not be much, but it will be something.”

He dips his head to the room at large. “Ms. Murdock, Mr. Murdock, Mr. Nelson, Ms. Page,” he says quietly. “Thank you for hearing me out.”

And then he’s gone.

Izzy sits down hard on the edge of the desk, her legs shaking. Matt turns towards her, one hand outstretched to find hers. “Iz--”

“I didn’t tell anyone about the Battle of New York,” Izzy whispers. “Not anyone, Mattie. It was--it was just--I never talked about it. Not ever.”

Matt lets his breath go and gets to his feet. He pulls her into his side, one hand on the back of her head. “I don’t blame you for that, Iz.”

“I’m not leaving,” Izzy mutters into his jacket. “Not ever. This is my home, my city, my family and I _stay here.”_                                               

 ****  
  
  
  
****


	6. we will stare down at the wonder of it all

_Izzy_

Officially and well, _legally,_ I’m not an agent of SHIELD. Nope, not me. Officially, Izzy Murdock is a private investigator in Hell’s Kitchen, sister to Matt Murdock, granddaughter to Hudson “Hellfire” Brennan, sister-in-law to Claire Temple-Murdock, and aunt to Jonathan, Sophia and Ruth Murdock, friend to Foggy Nelson and Karen Page.

Officially.

 _Un_ officially, I’m one of the Devils of Hell’s Kitchen (funnily enough, the media never got around to giving me a clever nickname without thinking of something absolutely awful like She-Devil-- _that_ one got a lot of angry letters), a vigilante alongside Daredevil (also known as the aforesaid brother, Matt Murdock, defense attorney extraordinaire), and an (definitely not official) attaché to SHIELD. Coulson occasionally asks me to consult on local New York cases. Occasionally. Almost never.

The times I _am_ called in are pretty damn spectacular.

It took a very long for me to trust Coulson, let alone agree to be SHIELD’s eyes and ears on the ground in New York. It involved a lot of bargaining, occasional explosions and one memorable incident with a rogue arms dealer, a guy who shrinks and a goat.

Don’t ask me where the guy who shrinks came in. I didn’t see him.

But now, I do side jobs for SHIELD, when I’m not helping Matt patrol Hell’s Kitchen and making sure he gets home to his wife and kids in (more or less) one piece. Life is...good? Crazy? Ridiculous? Full on batshit insane? It’s all of those things, but it’s mine.

The point is, SHIELD and I have a long, complicated relationship. I’m not an official agent so Coulson can’t (technically) give me orders, but I’m not an official agent so I’m left in the dark about some ( _most_ ) things. Not the serious things, though. Not usually. Coulson knows better than that.

That doesn’t change the fact he needs to stop showing up in mine or my brother’s office randomly.  We have cell phones; we can use them. Any time I try to explain this to Coulson, all I get is the most politely bland look of utter incomprehension so by now, my telling is him is more tradition than anything else. Like today.

“Ms. Murdock,” he greets me politely as he steps into my office; I don’t have a secretary, so my desk is the first thing anyone sees. “How are you today?”

I sigh and lean back in my chair. “Fine. What do you need, Coulson? I’ve got two upcoming cases and I have a court appearance in a week with my brother.”

Coulson gives me his trademark thin-lipped smile. “Of course. I’ll try not to take up too much of your time then.” He sits down across from me, as comfortable in that creaky chair as he was when we were involved in a shootout that one time. Look up “unflappable” in the dictionary and Coulson’s picture is probably next to it.

He’s got a file folder under his arm, big, official looking with the SHIELD insignia stamped across it. “Ms. Murdock,” Coulson begins, pleasantries dispensed with, “what do you know about James Buchanan Barnes?”

I blink. What kid who grew up in Brooklyn _doesn’t_ know about James Buchanan Barnes? “I know what the history books say,” I allow. “Why, you need to me to find something on him?”

“No,” Coulson replies, setting the file folder on the desk in front of me, “I want you to bring him in.”

I eye him. “Kinda hard to bring in a dead man, Coulson. He’s the only Howling Commando who was killed in action. I thought you knew that.”

“Ms. Murdock, I assure you, Sgt. Barnes is not dead,” Coulson says very quietly. I stare at him as he goes on, “When he fell in the Alps in 1945, he was found by HYDRA scientists. They took him in, saved his life and replaced his missing right arm with a fully functioning metal prosthetic. They renamed him the Winter Soldier and he became one of the most feared assassins in the intelligence community for almost seventy years. He is credited for fifty confirmed kills on record and he was in Washington when SHIELD fell.”

I stare some more, first at that file on my desk, then at Coulson. “And you want _me_ ,” I say slowly, to make sure I have this right, “to bring him in. An _assassin_. This is kind of out of my jurisdiction Coulson.”

Coulson shakes his head. “SHIELD’s been trying to bring James Barnes out of the cold for a few years now. He avoids us. He avoids Captain Rogers too, if he can help it. He--he is a man in need of help, Ms. Murdock, and right now, none of ours can go near him.”

“So what do you want _me_ to do?” I protest. “Hell, how do you even expect me to _find_ him?”

“Sgt. Barnes is occasionally in contact with me,” says Coulson, very carefully. “I could let him I know found him--a handler, one that has no direct ties to SHIELD, just to me, and that they’re willing.”

I’ve never liked that phrase, that stock one of spies and espionage, _handlers_. Like they’re dogs and I’m holding a leash. “And if you get into contact with him, will he be okay with that?” I ask dubiously. _I_ wouldn’t be, if I was in his shoes.

Coulson studies me seriously. “I understand your reservations,” he says. “But frankly, Ms. Murdock, we’re running out of options. James Barnes, the Winter Soldier, cannot be left by himself. He needs--someone. Not an agent, not even a handler, really. Not a civilian either. Someone who can take care of themselves, competent and intelligent.” He releases a quiet sigh. “Ms. Murdock, if you choose not to take his case, I understand. I wouldn’t entirely blame you either. But please--think about it. And read the file. It might help you make the decision.”

I eye the folder, then Coulson. I can count on one hand the number of times Coulson has said _please_ and really meant it. “I’ll think about it,” I finally allow.

Coulson nods once. “That’s all I can ask for.”

* * *

I don’t intend to read the file when I’m at work. I’ve got literally a million other things to do, and learning about Cold War government secrets and assassins is not among them.

But I can’t ignore it either, so finally, I flip the thing open carefully, like it’s a bomb that might go off in my face, and read the first report.

It’s awful. It’s awful in the sick, slow, spiral of someone crushing a helpless animal just for the cruel amusement of it. Some of the reports are taken straight from HYDRA. They talk about torturing and brainwashing a wounded man like it’s the weather or the menu. Others are from the Red Room, mentions of men and--and _girls_ killed during training, because they didn’t move out of the Soldier’s way fast enough. Others are mentions of people dying over the years, sudden, abrupt, ruthless deaths laid out like so many statistics.    

About half way through, I have to stop. I have to stop or I’ll throw up, or cry or start screaming in pure rage.

They never use his name. Not even in the reports done by the current SHIELD. There’s never any mention of James Buchanan Barnes, just “the Soldier” or “the asset.” He’s not a person to them, he’s a weapon, a ghost, a bogeyman. They want to blame him for something that wasn’t his fault, instead of the people who caused it. It i _nfuriates_ me.

I put away the file in my safe where I keep the details of cases that are private. I need to get out of here, million things to do or not. I need the punching bag at Fogwell’s, I need my brother’s voice and the laughter of my nieces and nephew. I need to run over rooftops, springing over distances, I need to slam my fists into someone’s side and hear a crack like ice.

It’s late by the time I make it to Matt and Claire’s brownstone. They moved out of Matt’s apartment when the twins were born, they couldn’t all fit. Matt keeps a spare room ready for me, in case I ever need to crash after patrol. Just walking up I can hear the laughter and chatter of Jon, Soph and Ruthie.

I let myself in, take off my shoes in the foyer and hear the yell of Jon and Soph, “Aunt Izzy’s here!” My oldest niece and nephew swarm towards me, Jon’s red curls a wild tangle and Soph’s barely restrained.

“Hello you young pestilences,” I say and they pounce on me. I yell and try to wrestle them off, but my brother’s trained his children far too well. They’re quick and nimble, and soon enough, I am on the ground, Soph sitting triumphantly on my stomach and Jon on my legs.

“Surrender,” Soph demands as she bounces on top of me and my breath leaves me in a _whoosh_.

“Murdocks-- _oof-_ -never stay down,” I wheeze out, and then I surge upright, grabbing Soph in one hand and Jon in the other and tickle them both mercilessly. They shriek and squeal, and Ruthie, my sweetest young niece comes out, her mom in her wake, unable to be left out of the fun

“Auntie Iz!” she shouts gleefully and springs into my arms, the presence of her older siblings notwithstanding. I have to let go of them both to catch her as she lands unerringly into my arms.

“Oof,” I say as I stand, Ruthie on my hip. “Hello Ruthie my love. Claire, your other children are barbarians.”

“I blame your brother for that,” Claire informs me wryly as she gives me a peck on the cheek.

“As well you should,” I tell her solemnly. “Where _is_ my brother, by the way?”

“Out late,” Claire replies, the code word for _‘out Daredevil-ing’._ “But he promised to be back before I put the kids to bed.”

I nod. I know Matt and Claire had some very serious talks once they got married and the twins arrived, and the end result was that I took over the patrolling some nights and Matt was there before the kids went to sleep. So far, by the grace of God and all the saints, Matt has kept his word.

“You missed dinner,” Soph informs me.

“Of course I did,” I sigh, because I am a Murdock and my luck is categorically terrible.

“I have leftovers,” Claire assures me, because she is the best of sisters-in-law.

“Awesome,” I say, shifting Ruthie to my other hip. She’s five now, almost too big to carry. “Lead the way.”

The older kids do their homework around us as I eat leftover enchiladas and Claire, with Ruthie on her lap, and I talk about work; occasionally one of the children pipes up with one of their own stories of their misadventures of the day. It chases away the memories of words about torture and death, cold rooms with metal shining down on unfeeling faces.

Matt arrives before nine-thirty, through the front door and instantly, all three of the kids jump up and rush out, shouting, “Daddy!” I hear their bodies crashing into his as he scoops them up, tells them hello. It makes my heart hurt, just a little, to think of our dad doing this for Matt when he came home from fights.

Matt comes into the kitchen, a twin under each arm and Ruthie’s arms around his neck, dangling like a cape. He kisses Claire hello first, soft and light and lingering and I busy myself putting away dishes in the sink. I hear them exchange hellos and news as Matt lowers Jon and Soph the ground, Ruthie sliding off his back to land expertly on the floor.

“Iz,” I hear him say as I turn, and kiss my brother’s cheek.  Marriage and fatherhood wear well on Matt, better than I ever could’ve hoped or dreamed. It took him and Claire a hell of a long time to get here, what with constant disasters and supervillains and Matt’s... _slightly crazy_ ex-girlfriend ( _that_ had been a fun one), but man, I’m so glad to see them both, side by side in the warm glow of the kitchen, with their kids around. It’s exactly what I need.

“Work go okay?” I ask, as Ruthie gently pulls at her father’s coat to get his attention.

“Yes Ruthie, I’m reading tonight,” Matt promises absently. “Work went well. Are you staying?”

“For an hour or two,” I say.

I help give the kids their respective baths, and go through the ritual of stories and prayers before bed. Then we adults go down to the kitchen, I help myself to seconds and Matt starts in on his share. Claire leans against his shoulder, drawing one hand through his hair.

I wait until Matt has finished half his portion before saying, “Coulson came by today.”

Any other married couple would’ve exchanged glances, Matt extends his hand to Claire and she lets her fingers rest on the back of it.  “What’s the case?”

“Not what,” I say, “who.” There is no easy way to say it, so I use the “rip it off like a band-aid” approach. “He wants me to bring in the Winter Soldier.”

“The who the what now?” Claire asks, her voice startled, but Matt is sitting upright, food forgotten. My brother is sometimes...alarmingly perceptive about things I would rather he not know about when it comes to my connection at SHIELD.  

“The Winter Soldier is a Soviet assassin,” says Matt sharply. “Foggy showed me the files that were leaked when SHIELD fell.”

“That is true,” I agree, knowing neither one of them is going to like this next bit, “but he’s _also_ James Buchanan Barnes, Captain America’s best friend and an American hero.”

Claire’s eyebrows go straight up and Matt’s mouth becomes a long, thin line. I brace myself; I know that look. That is Matt’s “someone’s-about-to-get-their-nose-broken” look. “Coulson asked me to be his...handler,” I explain. “Someone who he can trust and who _isn’t_ an agent with another agenda. It has to be a civilian who can take care of themselves, and who has ties to _Coulson_ , not SHIELD. And apparently, they’re running out of options.”

“So they send you in to be cannon fodder,” say Matt in a flat voice.

I cut my brother a look, blind or not. “If I suspected that, I wouldn’t even thinking about it.”

“You’re _considering_ this?” Claire asks me. “Izzy, the man is an assassin.”

I raise my hands in acknowledgment. “I know that, but my reservations are less that he’s an assassin, but more I don’t think I’m... _qualified_ to help him.”

“What does Coulson even expect you to do?” Matt says. 

I shake my head. “I don’t even know. Coulson will probably tell me if I accept the assignment. Probably make sure he doesn’t try and kill anyone, like say, Captain America, if he’s in New York. Or in Europe dropping cities from the sky.” We all make faces at the memory of _that_ news story.

Matt pushes the food around on his plate, less being picky and more thinking. “Izzy, I don’t like this.”

“You haven’t liked much of anything that involves me with SHIELD,” I say. “So at this point, I think it’s just habit.”

My brother puts aside his fork, exasperated. “Izzy, be serious.”

“I am being serious,” I tell him. “Matt, Coulson gave me the file they had on the Winter Soldier. It’s--” I swallow hard, fighting down bile at the memory. “It’s awful, Matt. What they did to him. He was prisoner of war and they turned him into a weapon and they _hurt_ him Matt, over and over again until he was broken into pieces for killing.” My nails are digging into my palms, I make my fists relax. “The point is, I am not opposed to helping him. That is not the problem. The problem is I don’t know _how_ to help him, or the best way to go about it. The best thing I’ve got going for me is that I have no direct ties to SHIELD, just to Coulson. And he trusts Coulson.”

“Izzy, sweetheart,” says Claire softly, “he’s not a stray puppy you find in the rain. He’s a damaged man who might take you for an enemy.”

“You’re right,” I say, shaking my head. “You are absolutely right, but--” My voice trails away. 

“But what?” Matt prompts. 

“But nothing,” I say finally. “I can’t help him and he shouldn’t have to suffer that on top of everything else. I’ll tell Coulson tomorrow.” 

Even as the weird, pulling on a string sensation that always signifies one of my hunches is beginning to be tugged, hard, in the opposite direction.

* * *

I go to find Coulson the next day. He shows up in _my_ office unannounced enough that I feel I can return the favor. SHIELD is still in New York, hidden behind enough corporate buildings with the Stark Industries logo that no one notices them anymore. I make my way through the halls and tunnels and into what they call the Hub 2, SHIELD’s mainstay in New York. The agents there know me well enough to let me through without incident. 

I relay my intention to see Coulson and one of the agents goes to find him. I wait in the main hall, watching the agents around me. Who’s left of SHIELD agents tend to view me as a loose cannon, at least at first. They shut up when my methods get results, but a lot of them don’t like the fact that I have no intention of joining them. I ignore it. I don’t make apologies for my life and what I’ve done to make sure I _keep_ living it. 

As I idly listen in to various conversations, I catch talk between two of the older, grizzled veterans who don’t even speak to me if they can help it. The words “Winter Soldier” get my attention.

“Coulson’s still set on bringing in that animal,” says one of them, a hard-faced, bitter looking bastard. The kind of agent who growls at the new ones and predicts which one will be the first to get killed. Exactly the sort I get the urge to rearrange a few of his teeth.

“He’d be a good source of information,” says his companion, a slightly younger man, but still not friendly. “He was with HYDRA long enough. He’s gotta know _something_ worthwhile.”

“And that’s worth wasting our time and resources?” says the first one. “For that monster? All so Coulson can find something that might not even exist.”

“Aw, c’mon Hardison,” protests the other guy. “Coulson needs everything he can get his hands on. We need everything we can get our hands on.”

“Not from him we don’t,” says Hardison. “We should put him down like a fucking _dog._ ”

I have a temper. It’s like my brother’s, it coils and waits until I let the devil out. I can’t feel my face when that happens, and I’m told my eyes look like pits of ice. Grandpa Hudson said I look like my father in the ring, when he was about to win.                                                                                    

I don’t remember moving. I just recall my fist slamming underneath Hardison’s jaw, a perfect knockout punch, just like Grandpa Hudson taught me, like Matt helped me get exactly right. I send him sprawling on the tile floor. His companion sees my face, backs up, doesn’t even try. The whole main hall goes completely silent.

Panting, I turn away from the groaning agent on the floor, ignoring his snarled, “You _bitch_.” I almost walk straight into Coulson, who surely saw the whole thing and is about to take me to task for it. He doesn’t. Just raises one eyebrow and waits.

The string around my heart is pulled so taut I think it might snap.

“I’ll do it,” I say. “I’ll be the Winter Soldier’s handler.”

Coulson doesn’t even blink. “I’ll let him know. He’ll come find you.”

For some reason, that doesn’t scare me as much as it should. 

* * *

 

I go back to my apartment, cursing myself for being every kind of idiot in existence. Matt was going to kill me, Claire was going to kill me, Foggy was going to yell at me and Karen would look worried. Making Karen look worried is the _worst_. I can almost stand everything else.

Punching people who deserve it makes me hungry so I start throwing ingredients together for a good, thick stew. If he does show up (and if the strength of my current hunch is any indication, then he probably will), then at least maybe I can get some food in him. It’s hard to kill people on a full stomach. I hope.

I have good instincts that have saved my life a few times, so I follow them. I put on music at a low volume, something I always play when I cook. When I lived with Matt, I’d make dinner while listening to his incredibly extensive record collection. I’d pick classic R&B for making burgers and steaks, Latin jazz for Mexican food nights. Specific music for certain meals. Matt would tease me for it.

I sing quietly as I cut meat, letting oil in the pan get hot. I keep my senses attuned for the outside, like Matt taught me to do. Even so, I when I turn around, I am not prepared for the figure on the fire escape outside my kitchen window.

It’s only because my brother is Daredevil that I don’t scream bloody murder at the sight of him. For a second, I think it is Matt out on patrol early, but no, this man’s too broad cross the shoulders for my brother. And the hair is too long, the jaw too dark. My brother doesn’t stand like a tiger waiting for prey to make a move.

My heart thunders so hard it hurts, but I put aside the knife and cut meat (everything I was ever taught screaming at the lack of a weapon) and walk to the window, outwardly calm. I push the window up, widening the space. Sounds from the street below drift in. Up close, his eyes are terrifyingly blank and empty. They hold no interest or spark, nothing that indicates life or thought. He looks simultaneously feral and fragile, like any minute he may decide to run or cut my throat. I really hope it’s neither. I don’t want to explain to Coulson how I lost my asset just as he showed up. Or have Coulson explain to my family how I got myself killed. Matt would do his absolute best to rain hell down on Coulson and my brother is _really_ good at raining down hell.

“Hello,” I say, quietly and simply, leaving my hands at my side, nonthreatening. “I’m Izzy Murdock. I take it you’re Sgt. James Barnes.”

A reaction, the smallest flicker in his eyes. Recognition. I wonder if anyone greets him by his given name, except Coulson. Coulson would. He’s the type.

“You’re welcome to come in,” I tell him. “I was just about to make some dinner for myself. There should be enough for two.”

He doesn’t move. No indication of some kind of preference. It’s a little like talking to the wall, except the wall doesn’t have the faintest sound of metallic clicking and grinding coming from the right arm. I try very, very hard not to think about the footage we all watched of the Winter Soldier--no, _James Barnes_ fighting with that arm, ripping apart cars like they were so much tissue paper. I try not to imagine what that hand would feel like, closed around my throat.

I take a deep breath and then another. “Listen,” I say to him, thinking of Matt’s approach with skittish or nervous clients. Quiet, gentle, matter of fact. “If you want to stand out there all night, I suppose you’re welcome to. I won’t stop you. But someone is going to eventually notice and I’m probably going to get a call from my landlord asking about my new statue. And I’m pretty sure you don’t want attention. I don’t. So, decide. I’ll be cooking while you think.”

It goes against every bit of training I’ve ever had to turn my back to him, but I do it.  I go back to the kitchen and coat my meat with flour, pour it into the pan. The sound of sizzling and the smell of cooking meat is almost enough to distract me from the quiet scrape of footfalls coming in through my window. For such a broad man, he can apparently move in absolute silence.

 _Of course he does, Izzy. He’s an_ assassin.

 _No,_ I remind myself, _he is not just that_.

I hear him coming to the doorway, standing there with a stillness so absolute I get the urge to throw something at him. Anything to make him react. But probably with a reaction that would be incredibly detrimental to my health and continued state of my life.

“Why’d you take me?” I don’t jump at the sound of his voice. I’m proud of this. It’s no worse than Matt’s when he’s out on patrol with me as Daredevil, low and raspy and not quite a growl. It’s not as rusty as I imagined it would be, and there is the slightest trace of an accent I can’t place. It hasn’t decided if it’s Russian or New York.

I shrug, now cutting up vegetables. “Coulson asked me to. Apparently, I was the bottom of the barrel. Sorry.”

I look at him after I speak, watching his face. He looks--slightly puzzled now, ascertaining as to whether or not I’m a threat. “Coulson asked you to and you just jump at it?” He sounds slightly suspicious now, eyes narrowed. I don’t want that look aimed at me; I’ve had loaded _guns_ that were less dangerous pointed at my face.  

I wondered for a while what approach to take with him, and finally decided on the truth.  I want him to trust me and truth is the only way to do that. Another useful life lesson gleaned from Matt.

“To be honest with you,” I say, pouring water into the pan, along with my vegetables, “I wasn’t going to take the case. Not at first.”

“Thought I was going to kill you in your sleep?” I know _that_ tone, I’ve had to live with it often enough. It’s bitterness, curdling thick.

“Not so much that,” I say. “But I wasn’t sure how to help you. I wasn’t sure what you needed.” I shrug. “But you’re here now, so first things first: you need food. We’ll figure it out from there.”

I add powder to the stew, letting it simmer. I put the lid on the pan and look up at him again.

He looks-- _lost_ , adrift. Like I’m a math equation he can’t solve. “Help me,” he echoes slowly. “ _You_ wanted to help _me._ ”

“I did,” I say. “Because no one deserves to have done to them what happened to you. And I--” I take a very deep breath, because everything hinges on this--“I am so very sorry that it did. And the other thing I’m sorry for is that the ones responsible for it are dead, so I can’t kill them again.” I sound slightly savage at this, and I put my cutting board and knife in the sink to give myself time to recover. He doesn’t move, just watches me. My block of kitchen knives is within easy reach--for both of us. I can’t decide if it’s a good thing.

He moves to the living room as I clean up the kitchen. I watch him from the doorway. He studies the pictures I have on my walls, sketches and paintings Karen made for me, portraits of my friends and family that I drew in college. The photograph of me and Matt when I graduated from Columbia, summa cum laude. Me with Matt and Claire at their wedding. Foggy and I at his house at Christmas, Karen and me at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Me holding Jon and Soph hours after they were born, them on their first birthday. Ruthie and Grandpa Hudson, Ruthie sitting on his lap as he shows her a photo album. The one photo I have of my dad, in Fogwell’s gym, before he married my mother, young and strong and the Murdock devil glinting his eyes, Matt’s smile playing around his lips.

I take down soup bowls and pull out spoons when he speaks again. “This your family?” he asks, not taking his eyes from the walls.

Only six of them are related to me by blood, but that’s never mattered. Foggy took me to Broadway shows, Karen shared her art supplies with me, Claire bought me clothes when I came to live with Matt and hardly had anything. “Yes,” I say. “The man with the reddish hair is my brother, Matt. He’s with his wife Claire.” I keep my own discretion where the whole Daredevil thing is concerned. I’m almost certain Coulson knows who my brother and I are at night, but he’s never brought it up and I see no need to do so now.

I point to the ones of Jon, Soph and Ruthie. “Those are his kids. The boy is Jonathan and that’s his twin sister Sophia. The little girl is Ruth, but everyone calls her Ruthie. She’s an angel, the twins are hellions.” I say it fondly, because five years later, none of us know how on earth Matt and Claire were given a child like Ruthie after the first two.

He just stands there, studying each picture in turn intently. My life laid out before him like so many pictures on my walls. “You look like you got a nice family,” he says finally, quietly. “Me staying with you, something could happen to them.” He looks me in the eyes now, finally something coloring his expression. It’s concern, it’s worry. “You sure you want to associate with me?”

I remember the flash of utter fury I felt in the Hub today, how everything became incredibly clear in one moment. My hunches hadn’t led me wrong this far. “Trust me, my brother can look after himself--and our family,” I assure him. “And I’m not in the habit of changing my mind once it’s made up. Sorry Barnes, you’re stuck with me.”

Then I put the soup bowls down on the table, like serving broken super assassins is something I do everyday, and ask him, “Are you staying to eat?”

He looks at table, then at me. His eyes are some changeable color between grey and blue, shadowed and lost. I wait and count the sound of my heartbeats.

One, two, three, four, five--

“Sure,” he says. “Sure. I’ll stay.”

* * *

 

Coulson actually calls me about five weeks later, asking for an update. “You didn’t give me a super assassin,” I inform him as I sort through papers at my desk. “You gave me a goddamn alley cat.”

“He’s been doing well then,” Coulson confirms.

“ _I_ don’t know,” I grumble. “He comes in and out of my house and eats all my food and he won’t sleep in the guest room--not that I’ve ever seen him sleep anywhere. And he lurks around my apartment until I make him sit down and help me go through case files.”

It’s not often Coulson’s startled, but I think I managed it now. “He goes through your files?”

“I _do_ have a job, you know,” I remind Coulson. “One that makes up most of my daily income. And he needs something to do every day. So he helps me. And it--hasn’t been a total disaster.”

“Then he _is_ doing well,” Coulson says and I don’t have it in me to confirm or deny it.

“Well enough,” I say curtly.

I can feel Coulson’s shrug through the line. “Then I leave it in your capable hands.” The phone promptly goes dead. I lower it and look at it in disgust, shake my head.

“A goddamn alley cat?” asks a husky voice from behind me. “That’s real nice, Murdock.”

I don’t even turn around. “Then quit creeping around my apartment and eating all my food.”

The slightest sound of boots treading crosses over to me. “You’re the one who keeps feeding me, Murdock. I swear you’re gonna make me fat.”

“Hush your complaining Barnes,” I say, looking up.  

He looks much better than when he did when I first met him, but for neither love nor money can I convince him to get rid of that awful leather jacket he wears. I’m all for a decent leather jacket (I pretty much _live_ in the one I’ve had since college), but this one looks like he stole it from a dumpster. ...Which I can’t entirely put past him, to be honest. But he smells clean more often than not, his hair’s not a shaggy mess anymore, and the perpetual scruff is tamed somewhat. His eyes are the biggest indicator of a slow return to...something better than before, I guess.  They’re clear and focused and they track movement without looking like he’s calculating an oncoming threat. It’s a small victory, but I take them where I can.

I put my files in the appropriate folder and say, “I’m headed over to my brother’s tonight. Just to drop in before I do some surveillance for the Beckett case. You feel like coming with me?”

One of the things I try to establish with Bucky is the fact I give him the _choice_ of doing what he wants. He follows orders, even casual, thoughtless ones, with an alacrity that makes me...uneasy. It smacks of _soldier_ to me and I’m trying to dispel that. Or at least try to. He seems constantly startled by the idea of him choosing anything and as it happens the more I’m sorry I didn’t blow up some more of HYDRA when I had the chance.

Bucky raises his eyebrows at me. “You sure I won’t scare the kids?”

I think of Jon and Soph and snort softly. “Believe me, you’re not even on the _list_ of things that scare my niece and nephew. And pretty much no one alive is capable of hurting Ruthie.”

Bucky gives me a dubious look. “Your brother doesn’t like me.”

I roll my eyes at this. “Matt’s threatened to send me to a convent every time I’ve even looked at another guy. Ignore him. That’s what I do.”

“And just how many guys have you looked at, Murdock?” His voice is nothing more than a mild question and I can feel heat creeping up my neck. Damn this ginger hair and everything that goes with it. Twenty-six years and I _still_ haven’t mastered Matt’s perfectly smooth courtroom face.

“None of your business,” I inform him, scooping up my jacket and keys. “You coming or what, Barnes?”

He watches me thoughtfully before shrugging. “Why not.”

Which is how I show up before dinner at Matt’s house, with the Winter Soldier, James Buchanan Barnes in tow. I suddenly hope Foggy isn’t here. He’d have a history fanboy-induced heart attack, with a side of panic thrown in. I told him and Karen the absolute basics of my newest assignment from Coulson, which made both of them incredibly worried, but for the most part, they trusted me to do it. In theory.

I let myself in, Bucky trailing behind me, studying the foyer. I don’t take my shoes off this time, just call out, “Hello!” as I shut the door behind us. “Anybody home?”

Instantly, the sounds of “Aunt Izzy!” echo upstairs and Jon and Soph come hurtling down to meet me again. Or at least, they start to. Jon sees Bucky first and skids to a halt, Soph crashing into him from behind, squawking with indignation. “Jon! What--” she catches sight of Bucky too and falls silent, eyes going wide.

I come forward briskly, scooping them into a hug. “Hello my young pestilences,” I say lightly. “Where’s your mom and dad?"

Jon hugs me back, but he’s still looking at Bucky curiously. “They’re in the kitchen. It’s dad’s turn to cook dinner. Aunt Izzy, who’s that?”

I put them down and go to take Bucky’s arm, his metal one, hidden under the leather jacket. I guide him forward carefully. “Kids, this is a friend of mine, James Barnes. I’m helping him out for awhile. Barnes, these are my niece and nephew, Jonathan and Sophia. You’ve seen their pictures.”

Bucky eyes them both for a moment as the kids eye him back. Strangers tend to double-take when they see Jon and Soph for the first time. Both of them have Claire’s warm golden skin and untidy curly tangles of reddish brown hair. Jon has the Murdock eyes, clear blue grey, and Soph got Matt’s hazel eyes. They don’t exactly look like twins, but there’s a similarity between them anyways. The uncanny way they seem to catch the other’s thoughts. Now they cock their heads in unison, looking at Bucky curiously.

Claire’s voice drifts over to us, “Izzy? Is that you?”

“It’s me,” I call back and I nudge the twins towards the kitchen. “Away with you now. Stop being weird.”

They scamper off as I glance over my shoulder at Bucky. “How you doing back there Barnes?”

“That wasn’t so bad,” he replies softly. “They’re not as scary as you made them out to be.”

I grin at him. “Wait until _you_ get babysitting duty.” He blinks at this and I make my way towards the kitchen, Bucky right behind me.

Jon and Soph are at the kitchen table with Ruthie, who is concentrating intensely on her coloring book, her tongue poking out of the corner of her mouth. Matt’s hands run over his Braille reader as Claire taps a wooden spoon on a pot. “Aunt Izzy,” says Ruthie happily, getting up to run to me. I scoop her up and kiss her cheek.

“Ruthie my love,” I say lightly, putting her on my hip. “This is my friend, James Barnes.”

Claire’s head immediately turns as Matt’s head goes up, blinking behind his glasses. I go on calmly, “Barnes, this is my brother Matt, my sister-in-law Claire and my niece, Ruth.”

Ruthie smiles sweetly at Bucky from her place on my hip, cherubic and trusting. “Hello,” she says. “You’re Aunt Izzy’s friend?”

Bucky glances at me before saying, “I guess I am, if she says so. How are you doing, doll?”

Ruthie giggles in delight at the old-fashioned endearment and I try not to smile. “I’m not a _doll,_ ” she protests through her laughter. “I’m Ruthie.”

“Ruthie,” he repeats quietly. “It’s nice to meet you.”

I lower Ruthie to the ground as Claire says from the stove, “Izzy, are...the two of you staying for dinner?” One of the many reasons I love my sister-in-law; she could give Coulson a run for his money when it comes to unflappable.

“I just came by to check in,” I say. “I’m doing surveillance for a case in a bit. Matt?”

My brother turns his head in my direction, expression entirely unreadable. He gets up slowly, overplaying the blind man act, as he usually does for strangers. “Hello,” he says, keeping his hand to the side. “I’m Matt Murdock.”

Bucky also does not offer his hand; it abruptly occurs to me that my life with Matt gave me some preparation for dealing with disabled persons with superhuman abilities. As strange as that sounds.

“Bucky Barnes,” he says quietly.  “Your sister’s been a help to me.”

“She does that,” Matt says, as Claire and I exchange glances.

Jon, bless his bad timing that rivals Foggy’s, pipes up with, “Hey, that name’s in my history book! That’s Captain America’s best friend!”

“Jon hush,” says Claire firmly, as Bucky’s eyes flicker. I draw in my breath, waiting for the reaction.

Bucky directs his words to Jon with some difficulty. “You--you like history, kid?” He sounds alright, sounds steady, though he’s probably minutely aware of the smallest shift of Matt’s weight to the balls of his feet, Claire’s grip tightening on the spoon in her hand and the slightest tilt of her eyes towards the block of kitchen knives. I am and I haven’t even moved yet.

Jon beams at him, completely unaware. “Yeah! Soph likes math better, but I’m good at history. I like learning about World War II and the Civil Rights Movement best. Dad taught us about Thurgood Marshall.”

“Was he a ballplayer?” asks Bucky, still steady, still clear. Jon wrinkles his nose at this.

“He was a lawyer,” says Soph from where she is, also watching Bucky closely. “He helped end segregation in schools.”

“Oh,” says Bucky, but doesn’t pursue the question. “You--you sound like a good student, kid.”

Jon grins as I can feel the tension bleed out of everyone. “Thanks, Mr--Mr--”

“Bucky,” he says softly. “Bucky’s fine.” He gives me a sidelong glance. “Your aunt calls me Barnes.”

“Don’t complain, Barnes,” I retort. “I feed you.”

The smallest smile hooks the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, you do.”

The atmosphere in the room relaxes a little as Claire directs the kids to set the table. I help automatically, though I’ll probably grab a tupperware container to take with us when we go.

Matt’s still coiled tense like a cat about to pounce and I drag him away down the hall and into the spare room that doubles as his office. “Calm down,” I tell him. “He’s fine, the kids are fine, Claire’s fine, I’m fine. Stop fussing.”

Matt glares at me. “You bring an _assassin_ into my _home-_ -"

“ _Former_ ,” I remind my brother forcefully. “ _Former_ assassin. And he’s pretty much been in _my_ home too, you know.”

Matt lets out his breath in a frustrated rush. “Izzy, why did you bring him here?”

I level my brother with a long, steady stare, knowing he can feel it in my voice “Because part of bringing Barnes back in from the cold is to give him an example as to what _normal_ looks like now.  And normal for me is dinner with you and Claire and the kids, listening to them talk about something that _isn’t_ violence or death or what the next mission is.” I take a deep breath and then another before I ask quietly, “Matt, do you really think so little of me as to believe I would recklessly endanger your family, my family? If I thought Barnes was a threat, I wouldn’t have brought him.”  

Matt deflates somewhat at this, but he gives me another scowl. “Are you sure he’s not--”

“Of _course_ he’s _dangerous_ ,” I retort. “ _You’re_ dangerous, _I’m_ dangerous. So are Claire and the twins, really, when you think about the shenanigans they get into. Just because he’s _dangerous_ doesn’t make him any less needing of normalcy or comfort after a while.”

Matt grimaces. “I swear, _you_ should’ve been the bleeding heart lawyer everyone accuses _me_ of being.”

“You _are_ a bleeding heart lawyer,” I remind him. “And I’m too cynical. Now come on. He’s fine, the kids are fine, and I can hear your stomach growling.”

Matt and I come back to find the kitchen still intact, Claire and the kids ready for dinner and Jon talking Bucky’s ear off about his subjects in school. It’d be hilarious if I didn’t see Claire clearly tensed up, watching for the first sign of harm towards her son.

I decide we’ve had enough of normalcy for one night. “Come on Barnes,” I say briskly. “We’ve got spying and meddling to do. Is it okay if I take some of the food, Claire?”

“Sure, go ahead,” she replies as Bucky slowly gets up from the chair he was occupying. He looks almost--disappointed?

“Are you coming back, Aunt Izzy?” asks Soph as I help myself to _arroz con pollo_.

“Not tonight, darling,” I reply, getting down another container. “But maybe on Sunday I should.”

“Will Bucky come?” pipes up Ruthie.

We all look at Bucky, who looks startled at even having being _mentioned_ , but he slides his gaze towards Ruthie, face softening slightly. “If your folks don’t mind,” he says carefully.

“Sure they don’t,” says Jon happily. “Can he come, mom, dad? Please?”

 _Oh dear God and all the saints,_ I think. _Bucky’s being adopted._

“After Mass would be fine,” says Claire, calmly and briskly. If she wasn’t married to my brother, I’d kiss her. “We’d love to have you.”

Matt only clears his throat once as a hollow _thud_ comes from under the table. I keep my face blank as Matt moves his leg away from Claire’s foot. “If you feel comfortable, of course,” he concedes.

I grin at my sister-in-law and mouth a quick _thank you_ and say out loud, “Well, we’d better get going. Matt, Claire, kids. We’ll see you on Sunday.” I kiss them all good-bye and guide Bucky towards the front door. 

“Bye Bucky!” Jon calls after us. “See you soon!”

Bucky half turns and raises his gloved hand in acknowledgment. “Bye,” he calls back quietly and we’re back on the streets again.

I let go of my breath in a long, relieved rush as we start walking. Bucky falls in step besides me easily.

“Well,” I say, “all things considered, that could’ve been a lot worse.”

“Yeah?” Bucky asks. “How come?”

I shake my head. “Nobody died, which is usually the best I can hope for when I bring someone home to meet my family. The twins weren’t creepy, Matt didn’t glower, so we’re all good.”

“They seem like good kids,” Bucky protests mildly.

I snort. “If you’re around for Halloween, just wait. They _excel_ in terrifying the neighborhood.”   

“Like their aunt, you mean?” Bucky asks blandly and I glare at him.

“ _I’m_ not terrifying,” I inform him severely. “Not normally, anyways.”

“You terrify me on a daily basis,” Barnes assures me as we walk. “What’s the case we’re working on?”

“Oh, it’s _we_ now, is it Barnes?” I say, oddly pleased and alarmed that he should find me frightening.

“You gonna tell me to go, Murdock?” He says it lightly enough, but it isn’t a joke. I know it’s not.

“Like I trust you to get it right,” I say. He actually grins now, bright and sharp and focused like unsheathed blade, and I find myself grinning in kind. The Hell’s Kitchen night is cold and clear and crisp and I feel the singing in my bones that means a hunch has come to fruition.           

“You’re damned crazy, Murdock.”

“You’re not so bad yourself, Barnes.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S FINALLY DONE. this is easily the longest chapter I've ever written. for this story, at least. 
> 
> more Izzy Murdock and Bucky shenanigans in the future, never fear. And the rest of the Murdock clan as well. thank you everyone who read, left kudos and comments.

**Author's Note:**

> Maine and I have written _novels_ about Izzy and her Murdock shenanigans. We hope to add to this more as time (and opportunity) goes by.


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